


Going Up

by arabybizarre, Cophinaphile, HaughtBreaker, jaybear1701, OBFrankenfics, tatarrific, thecirclesquare, trylonandperisphere, tumblweed



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3322514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabybizarre/pseuds/arabybizarre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cophinaphile/pseuds/Cophinaphile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaughtBreaker/pseuds/HaughtBreaker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaybear1701/pseuds/jaybear1701, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OBFrankenfics/pseuds/OBFrankenfics, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatarrific/pseuds/tatarrific, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecirclesquare/pseuds/thecirclesquare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/trylonandperisphere/pseuds/trylonandperisphere, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumblweed/pseuds/tumblweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some loves last a hundred lifetimes. And sometimes, so do their scars. A Cophine AU within an AU, from the collective minds of the OBFrankenfic group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Chapter One

by Tatarrific

 

Cosima pressed the elevator call button again, ignoring the side-long glance from the security guard. Her interview was to start exactly 9 minutes ago and, though she considered her penchant for running late to everything a charming personality quirk, she didn’t think that the corporate types at Dyad would feel the same way. Especially not a ‘Dr. D. Michelle Cormier’, set to interview her first - from what Google told her about this guy, he was a straight-up overachiever: graduated with high honors from SciencePo, doctorate from Stanford, and is running his own center at Dyad, all by the ripe age of 33. Even Jesus would be impressed.She punched the button again. Maybe she can just blame her tardiness on malfunctioning machinery at this building. For a 30-floor gleaming needle of a downtown architectural wonder, they sure could at least get the elevators to be a tad more efficient.

Fuck. 10 minutes.

The ‘up’ arrow lit up with a ding above the middle door and Cosima perked up, standing in front of it, waiting to dart in. The door remained closed, its metallic surface reflecting a distorted image of herself back at her - the tastefully muted colors of her shift dress, purchased just for the occasion, the marginally neater pile of dreads coiffed at the top of her head - and she fingered the simple chain around her neck, feeling nearly naked without her usual collection of jangly necklaces.

There was another ding, and she looked up, lips pursed, to see the arrow light go off, the door remaining imperturbably closed. “The f—” She jammed the call button again, this time the door sliding open with a cheerful ding, revealing a gleaming, mirrored interior.

"Finally!" She strode in, quickly locating the correct floor -Penthouse, figures- preparing herself for the sudden, inevitable stomach drop at the rapid acceleration of the car. The door started closing with another loud ding and she glanced down at her watch,If under 15, it doesn’t count, right?,when an arm holding a briefcase suddenly swung through the narrow opening, forcing the doors to open again.

"For the love of-" she muttered under her breath, glancing at her watch again, then looked up at the intruder. The woman was tall, blonde and model gorgeous despite the severity of her all black corporate outfit, and Cosima gripped the metal handrail feeling her stomach drop for an entirely different reason.

”Bonjour,” the woman husked out, slightly out of breath, “I’m sorry for keeping you.”

"Ah, yeah, no problem, whatsoever." Cosima felt her hands do that thing, when the elbows jut out and her fingers wrap around each other nervously. "Totally cool. No rush."

The blonde shot her a curious glance and a half smile as she turned toward the panel. “Ah, well, we are going to the same place, it seems.”

"Very, totally cool." Cosima shut her eyes momentarily, pressing her lips together. Just.Shut.It.

The door slid shut and after a moment’s hesitation, the elevator slid upward, quickly gathering acceleration. Cosima spared a side glance at the woman, trying to figure out her story. A competitor for the same job? An accountant? A dominatrix heading to meet the CEO? A snort of amusement escaped her mouth before she could stop herself and she glanced at the woman mortified, hoping she didn’t hear. Hazel eyes gazed back at her cooly, an elegant eyebrow raised.

"Something funny?"

"Auh, um, no, no, I just-" and then, with a flicker of lights, the elevator slid to a halt.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some loves last a hundred lifetimes. And sometimes, so do their scars. A Cophine AU within an AU, from the collective minds of the OBFrankenfic group.

Chapter Two

by Cophinaphile

 

“Merde,” the blonde remarked with a resigned irritation that implied she wasn’t entirely surprised by the sudden change in momentum. Her previously meticulous posture sagged as she spread her feet to shoulder width and let the briefcase swing in front of her, holding it now with both hands, head hanging, shaking curls accented by ironic laughter. “We might as well get comfortable.” she offered to Cosima, who still simply looked bewildered, “this might take a moment.”

“Did the elevator just stop?” the brunette asked incredulously, and then louder and with more punctuated syllables, “Did the elevator just stop?!?!” The blonde’s lack of response was taken as an affirmation. Cosima, looked at her watch. _15 minutes._ Officially late, she tried to suppress her seething temper, but to no avail. “Fuck.” she hissed, and then repeated the word with increasing volume and aggression, slamming her open hand against the panel, which remained a grid work of dark grey circles. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck! You have to be fucking kidding me?!?!?”

The startled blonde stared at her, almost smiling with her eyebrows raised in a bemused question, “I take it you need to be somewhere.” The statement hung like a question between them.

Cosima, suddenly recognizing that her life was not the only one being lived in the elevator, made a conscious effort to relax her mind and body, to somehow be less frighteningly self-absorbed. “Uhh, yeah. I am. Sorry about that. I’m here to interview for a job, which now I think I can safely say I will not be getting.” A modicum of residual agitation was apparent in the edge of her voice and in the way she intentionally poked at each of the panel buttons.

“Ah,” the blonde contributed with out invitation, “I am here for an interview as well,” the thought was offered casually; as if it was the most marvelous coincidence. “I have been in this elevator before, and I will tell you, this is not the first time it has stalled. But do not worry. It is not exactly a mechanical failure.”

“It’s not?” the brunette inquired. Wondering how the blonde could know this.

“Non. The Dyad is a very cutting edge laboratory. There are government and corporate projects underway here that most people cannot even dream of in their ordinary lives. It is DYAD policy that if a single sample, data file, prototype or research project is not logged by microchip scan at least once every thirty minutes that the facility automatically locks down every door and elevator until all labs and departments report full staffing and that all protocols have been audited.”

“Seriously?!” Cosima wanted to call bullshit, but she had a feeling that she had actually been told the absolute truth. “That is intense!!” she nodded and stretched the word in admiration. “So do you know how long this usually takes?”

“Mmmm, depends on if anything is missing or not!” the blonde moved to the far corner of the compartment put her briefcase down and leaned into the angle of the hand rails, supporting some of her weight with hands slid wide apart. “If everything is accounted for it should only take 10 minutes; If not… well, that remains to be seen.”

“Right…” Cosima’s spirit dampened. “I just know I am perfect for this job. I have the perfect resume, I wrote the perfect dissertation; I have the perfect publication history; I have the perfect research proposal, and I’m hella cute!”

“Cute?” The blonde laughed out loud. “How does being cute make you perfect for this dream job?”

“Well, maybe it doesn’t but if I am running this late, it can’t hurt.” Cosima chuckled and gave a sideways smirk!

“C’est vrai,” she affirmed Cosima’s obvious good looks, “but I’m sure the interviewer will understand. You never know who is stuck where at this very moment in time.” She punctuated her coy sentence with a wink; Cosima flushed and her brain spun in a circle.

Cosima gasped and leaned in, whispering to the woman, “You mean this Dr. Cormier might be stuck in the toilet at this very moment?” Cosima’s conspiratorial tone made Delphine smile and she could not help then but laugh at her own joke.

As their eyes met, the taller woman responded playfully, “It is possible, vraiment.” That was when Cosima noticed it; She saw it flash right behind the hint of mischief in the blonde woman’s eyes: a question, a chance. Cosima decided to gamble on it. She straightened her posture back up and stepped rather than leaned toward the blonde

“Ten minutes?” Cosima’s tone was suddenly cavalier. She had been captivated by the allure of this gorgeous woman whose eyes seemed ready to spill a secret with which Cosima desperately wanted to be trusted. “That’s not such a big deal I guess… I mean, what’s ten minutes with such,” she chose the next words carefully, “engaging and informed company.” She shrugged her shoulders and looked askance at the blonde, intentionally flirting, waiting to gauge the blonde’s reaction. The effect was as she had hoped… a rush of heat and color, and a self-conscious shifting of gaze. This emboldened the brunette.

“So,” she stopped mid-utterance, gesturing palms open to the air, “I am so sorry. It just occurred to me that I don’t know your name.”

The blonde balked almost imperceptibly; she seemed reserved, almost uncertain of how to respond, but only for a moment. Then she extended her hand. “Delphine; enchantée.”

“Cosima,” the brunette stepped forward one leg crossed over the other. She extended her own hand and grasped Delphine’s firmly, intending to express confidence and amiability. Instead, she exposed herself.

The slide of Delphine’s warm soft flesh against her palm caused her to shudder; her eyes closed instinctively, and she squeezed her legs closer together in order to quell the familiar heat that dropped through her core. Delphine noticed this and held a bit tighter to Cosima’s finger tips, causing the woman to look back into her eyes and what she saw there sent her pulse racing: recognition.

The brunette had tipped her hand, for sure, but so had the blonde. There was no use in dissembling, so Cosima leaned forward turning Delphine’s wrist over and placed a lingering kiss at Delphine’s pulse point.

“Enchantée.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some loves last a hundred lifetimes. And sometimes, so do their scars. A Cophine AU within an AU, from the collective minds of the OBFrankenfic group.

Chapter 3

By Arabybizarre

 

 _What’s ten minutes with such_ _engaging and informed company?_

On a sunny day, when obligations are few, it could seem like little more than ten seconds. In a hospital waiting room, biting one’s own nails bloody in expectation of the worst—ten days.  
  
But in a vacuum—ten months, ten years. A lifetime, or two.  
  
The breath rattled in Delphine’s chest as Cosima—this curious, comforting… achingly familiar woman—pressed her lips gently to the blonde’s wrist, heat vibrating from carpus to clavicle with the precision of a stone skipping across water. Delphine could feel the bearing of those lips rippling under her skin in smooth, concentric waves. Could feel the unwarranted—near frightening—intensity with which her body began to warble. 

  
Cosima, too, seemed to stiffen at the same moment that Delphine shivered, the lights in the elevator flickering twice; the soft, atmospheric music that drifted from the speakers evaporating in a hiss of static.  
  
It was just a moment. A second, or less. Perfectly ordinary, in spite of its intensity. But Delphine, so conscious of every process in her body—uncannily so—could pinpoint the exact moment when it seemed to suspend.  
  
Her mouth, struggling to keep pace with the momentum of her thoughts, slackened of its own accord, a half formed —“Wha..?”—tumbling immediately out. Cosima, bewildered, tipped her head back just slightly, lifting her gaze.  
  
That is when: the static, butchered, as if by a freshly sharpened knife; the darkness, abruptly descended; and the elevator, dropping with a physical—electrical—jolt that set every hair on Delphine’s body completely on end, the back of her head erupting in blistering heat.  
  
Cosima cried out with strangled agony, fingers tightening around the blonde’s wrist. In the same moment, the light returned, some sort of raucous jeering emitted from the speakers. The elevator began to rise.  
  
“Cosima?” The brunette’s eyes were clamped painfully shut, hand clutching at the back of her neck. Alarmed, Delphine called out to her again, grabbing her forearm firmly. “What is it?”  
  
“I don’t—” Delphine could see the tremor in her chest as she gasped, her own body reacting in tandem.   
  
Ten seconds. Ten days. Ten years.  
  
A lifetime.  
  
The rippling escalated, rocketing through her body with such force that she imagined her own atoms splitting, the fabric unravelling. Her limbs seemed to unspool, gaze fixed upon Cosima’s astonished face, but growing fuzzy.  
She could hear each breath. Feel it mounting, peaking. Dropping through the floor as the elevator ascended.   
  
The light brightened, blinded; the jeering from the speakers growing more prominent, taking shape in the form of voices, declarations that dipped in and out, as if an invisible hand were turning the dial on a radio. She heard the voices shouting in her native tongue, cruel and bombastic.   
  
_“… for bringing violence to the palace gates… stoking the fires of so-called revolution…”_  
  
She felt Cosima grab her forearm; saw, through bleary vision, the other woman’s lips moving. The light had grown brighter, however. She could hear nothing over the din erupting form the elevator speakers, the voices clarifying.  
  
 _“… the court of King Louis XVI will not stand for such treachery… such treason among his people! While this woman may be one… among many rebels… she, alone, on this day, will serve as the example…”_  
  
The elevator began to dissolve around them, the weight of Cosima’s hands growing more distant until fading all together. For the briefest second, she was engulfed completely by the light, before color, shape returned to her.  
  
The dial had turned to the precise frequency—voices that had, seconds before, been popping with static, suddenly surrounded her with total clarity. In her ears, at her sides and back. There was no hand upon her arm, but she could feel the presence of bodies around her.   
  
“… By the decree of our Lord Marquis, she alone—”  
  
Holding the breath tightly in her lungs, Delphine opened her eyes, only to find a familiar pair staring back at her, stricken with anguish, regret.  
  
“—will be subject to the guillotine!”  
  
The crowd erupted immediately, cheering. Bemused, with her heart pounding between her ears, Delphine could scarcely pull oxygen into her lungs. At once there was a sense of confusion, but also arresting comprehension, if not apprehension. Her body rooted to the Earth, not daring to betray her with sudden unconsciousness. Instead, her senses sharpened.  
  
And somewhere in the back of her mind, there was a calm, muted voice telling her, “You are not dreaming.”  
  
But how could she believe that, logically, despite her body’s insistence? She stared ahead at the tarnished, wooden scaffolding; the brawny man clad all in black, pulley held tightly in his hands; and finally, finally, as if drawn by a swift gravitational tug, her gaze fell upon—  
  
“Cosima,” she gasped, heart thumping harder than she’d thought possible. Whether this was a dream or not seemed to matter very little as she took in the woman’s shaking body, laid flat on the bench extended out the back of the guillotine, her hands and ankles bound. She could practically see her gulping, the fear bobbing down her throat, caught along the slot where her smooth throat rested. Just as they’d been in the elevator—moments?—before, her eyes, stripped of their spectacles, were clenched tightly shut.  
  
“Cosima,” Delphine tried again, this time louder, but her voice drowned in the ruckus surrounding her. She tried again—“C-Cos—”—the name sticking in her throat. Just as her panic began to build, pushing desperately forward only to be rebuffed by the spectators standing in front of her, Cosima’s eyes snapped open. They scanned the crowd, frantic, before finding Delphine’s gaze.  
  
The blonde couldn’t move, pinned by the passion ensconced in Cosima’s stare. Her mouth dropped open again, brain struggling to formulate words. The brunette’s brow crumpled, just slightly, before her jaw tightened, the corner of her mouth quirking. It was merely an intimation—barely there—but a smile, nonetheless, her eyes softened with what Delphine knew to be affection. Love.  
  
The executioner stepped closer to the guillotine, tightening his grip on the pulley. Instinctively, Delphine surged forward again, but the man in front of her, aggravated, barred her advance.  
  
“Cosima,” she called again, finding her voice. The brunette’s eyes widened slightly, and she shook her head.  
  
It was all near-imperceptible, so as not to arouse suspicion, but Delphine caught it—the silent movement of her lips, the assurance: _“It is okay.”_

* * *

 _“Why must you leave so soon?”  
  
Raising one incredulous brow, Cosima chuckled, pulling her dress back over her shoulders.  
  
“So soon?”  
  
“You’ve not been here an hour,” Delphine said softly, pulling the thin blanket over her chest.  
  
“Love,” Cosima began, sighing. She turned away from the blonde, facing the wall as she resumed dressing. “Then I have been here nearly an hour too long.”_  
  
 _Delphine felt a tightness in her chest. Falling back into the pilfered linens arranged atop the hay, she pulled the blanket over her face. She felt foolish for it, but could not help the heat pricking the backs of her eyes.  
  
After a long moment, filled with the rustling of fabric, Cosima making herself presentable, she chuckled again. Delphine felt her weight sinking into the hay beside her, a weight on her forearm.   
  
“Come now,” the brunette beseeched gently. “You know how it is—if I die, I would like it to be beside you.” A pause, that weight tugging back the blanket she still stubbornly held to her face. “Wrinkled.” As the blanket was pulled away, Delphine shut her eyes. “Grey.” Her pout was belied by the smile beginning to hitch the corners of her mouth. “A full life behind me.” Cosima leaned forward, kissing each eyelid softly. Delphine sighed, her smile unrestrained. “However, if I were to remove my dress again…” She pressed a chaste kiss to the blonde’s mouth then, whispering. “… I am far more likely to die at the end of your husband’s blade.”_  
  
 _When Delphine finally opened her eyes, a sad, resigned line knit between Cosima’s brows._  
  
“As I recall,” Cosima began, standing to retrieve her boots, “the Marquis isn’t very fond of sharing.” Sitting down to tie her laces, she huffed, “Particularly not with commoners.”  
  
“You’re a woman,” Delphine insisted, hoisting herself up on her elbows, the blanket falling past her breasts. “He suspects nothing.”  
  
“He’s no fool. Besides,” Cosima looked over her shoulder, gaze falling regretfully on Delphine’s bare chest, “I hardly think he’d believe the cook’s daughter is helping you bake a loaf of bread between your legs.”  
  
“Cosima,” Delphine chastised, failing to stifle her giggle. She could see Cosima smile as she finished tying her laces. She then returned to the blonde’s side, sitting on her knees. Watching her lover reverently, she brushed her knuckles across her cheek.

 _“It is as I told you from the beginning—I will never be able to stay.” Delphine swallowed thickly, and she hurried on, consoling. “Not_ yet _,” she grinned. “The common people are hardly unexceptional. We have plans. We_ will _make change. And when we are through, titles such as Marquis,” she poked Delphine’s cheek, teasing with her trademark grin, “_ Marchioness _—will matter very little.” She twirled one of the blonde’s curls around her finger, eyes darting across the room. In the flickering lamplight of the barn, her face seemed to glow. “When that time comes—then, I will stay.” Suddenly, she met Delphine’s eyes again, a look of breathtaking determination on her face. “You will never again have to watch me leave. Not for as long as we breathe.”_

* * *

She couldn’t help the agonized shout that tore from her throat as the executioner let go of the pulley, the blade dropping. Cosima’s eyes were fixed on her as the cold steel severed her flesh.

Delphine swore she could feel the phantom sting in the back of her own neck as Cosima’s head hit the platform with dull thump, the crowd hollering gleefully. How they could feel such happiness, excitement, when her heart was pierced with pain seemed unfathomable. Fury and grief lanced palpably through her, her knees weakening. Only through great force of will was she able to remain on her feet.

Boastfully, the executioner bent over to pick up the severed head from the platform, holding it by its long, wavy tresses. Cosima’s lifeless eyes remained opened. Still, even as the executioner paraded her around the stage, shaking her, shouting, Delphine swore she could feel her stare boring into her.

* * *

She practically screamed when she found herself back in the elevator, returned in the dying light. She felt herself stumbling back, but Cosima held her tightly, eyes shaking with tears.

“No,” the brunette gasped, fingers tightening, chest heaving with heavy breaths. “No, don’t—”

“Mon dieu.” Delphine covered her own mouth with a trembling hand. “How—” Her voice cracked in disbelief, panic, and that same residual pain.

“I don’t—” Cosima shook her head, blinking back her bemusement. Her voice sounded ragged. Stepping closer, she moved her hand from Delphine’s wrist, back up to her forearm. 

_“You will never again have to watch me leave.”_ Delphine heard the words echoing through her memory, a surge of warmth, comfort flooding through her. With it, her heart rate began to inexplicably even out.

“Look,” Cosima began, taking another step forward, “I don’t know—” 

Suddenly, the brunette’s voice was cut off by the bright ding of the elevator, silence trailing in its wake. Slowly, they each turned to the door. The number on the panel glowed— _10_. 

Delphine’s eyes widened as the doors slid opened.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some loves last a hundred lifetimes. And sometimes, so do their scars. A Cophine AU within an AU, from the collective minds of the OBFrankenfic group.

Chapter Four

by Jaybear1701

 

Cosima shut her eyes and slipped her fingers underneath her glasses, wiping away tears and rubbing along the circumference of her sockets. Her heart pounded so hard that her ribs felt bruised, while the nape of her neck ached from a sharp phantom pain.

No, she _didn’t_ just see a grassy knoll on the other side of the elevator doors. Nor did she just experience her own beheading. There was a… a logical explanation for it all and her mind jumped to…

Felix.

And the neon green concoction he had slipped her the night before.

 _Never again_ , she thought. _Never again am I going to trust Felix when he gives me his “special.”_

She was just hallucinating; encountering a delayed and very much unexpected side effect from a bad trip. That had to be it. She just had to snap out of it. _Okay, Cos, you’re still in bed. You’re not standing inside an elevator with a gorgeous blonde. Just pull yourself together and everything will be chill. Everything will be…_

Cosima cracked her eyes open and gasped. The green hill remained and so did Delphine, who gazed in confused wonder at the scenery, which appeared slightly blurred and out-of-focus, like a reflection in moving water.

"What’s happening?" Delphine breathed out, golden eyes wide and quivering.

"You wouldn’t happen to know someone by the name of Felix Dawkins, would you?"

"What?"

"Nevermind," Cosima said, reluctantly taking a small step away from Delphine and moving toward the open doors. "Is this… some kind of projection maybe?" She extended her arm outward and jolted in surprise when the landscape rippled and shimmered. "What the…"

Before she could turn back to Delphine, she felt a crackle of electricity in the air and caught the distinct whiff of ozone, and heat again seared across the back of her neck. Cosima cried out and fell to her knees, head spinning, vision tunneling. And just when she started to feel acid surging up her throat and her mouth beginning to water, it was over… and she found herself sprawled on a bed of soft grass, the blades poking at her cheek, the sweet scent of earth filling her nostrils.

Groaning, she pushed herself to a sitting position. Delphine was gone and Cosima fought to ward off the panic gripping at her stomach. She was on the hill, the top of her head uncomfortably warm from the bright, mid-day sun. Cosima got to her feet and brushed off her… kimono?… and slowly turned in a circle, taking in the cloudless azure sky and the trees in the distance that were just beginning to blossom in pastel pink. A sudden gust of wind tousled her hair, billowed the crimson silk draping her frame, and that was when she noticed _her_.

In the distance stood a little girl flying two kites.

As if drawn by some invisible string, Cosima moved toward her. She was about five, maybe six years old, Japanese, shiny dark hair tied back with a simple blue bow that matched her navy and white kimono. She hummed to herself as she gazed up at the kites: one blue and turbulent, jerking haphazardly against the air currents; one red, which swayed lazily in the wind . 

"Um… hello?" Cosima greeted and immediately froze. The foreign dialect emanating from her mouth startled her.

The little girl finally took note of her, eyes happily crinkling around the edges. Her smile filled Cosima with an inexplicable warmth that thrummed deep within the marrow of her bones. The girl held out her hands, offering Cosima a choice between the strings of the kites. Without thought, Cosima reached out to accept one, fingers _—_

Gripping the edge of the shoji’s recessed handle, Cosima slid open the partition made of elegant cherry wood and rice paper. It was dark, silent, and Cosima blended in with the color of the cold night, covered head to toe in black. She breathed in deeply, in and out, in and out, and glided stealthily across the tatami floor to a desk in the corner of the room. She rummaged through the drawers, searching for information, _anything_ , about this particular shogun’s deployment of Shinsengumi officers against her Ishin-Shishi entranced was she in her task that she didn’t notice the small device that rolled into the room until it exploded with a loud bang, blanketing the room with _—_

_Smoke from spent fireworks twisted and mingled with the clouds silhouetting the deep purple sky. Humidity condensing on her sticky skin, Cosima lay in the grass next to her best friend on their hill. She felt content, peaceful, her fingers loosely interlocking with Delphine’s in a tangled, lazy dance. She tilted her head to gaze at her friend, just on the cusp of womanhood, who watched her with soft affection._

_"Beautiful, wasn’t it?" Cosima whispered, afraid to break the hushed stillness surrounding them._

_Delphine offered no answer. Instead, she smiled and lifted her free hand to stroke Cosima’s cheek _—__

Which stung from a blunt blow that came from somewhere within the thick, blinding smoke, rocking her head back with a painful snap. Although Cosima managed to unsheathe and raise her kodachi in time to parry the next attack, steel clashing against steel, she was badly off-balance and couldn’t recover quickly enough to block the kick that landed in the middle of her chest. She crashed backwards into the shoji, tearing through the thin paper and into the snow-covered garden. Using her momentum, she rolled onto her shoulder and pushed off the ground with a back handspring, landing on her feet.

A figure in samurai armor and mask emerged from the office, katana steady in a two-handed grip, moonlight glinting off the metal. A gong clashed in the distance—an alarm—and Cosima knew she’d be surrounded within minutes. The only way out was through the guard. Crouching low to the ground, she surged forward and _—_

_Pinned Delphine beneath her on the mat, kissing her like it was their last night on earth. To Cosima, it might as well have been, given that her father was escaping the region’s shogun by moving their family from Kyoto to Edo. A distance of some 450 kilometers—It was a world away when all was said and done and she was being forced to leave her heart behind. And without a heart…_

_Delphine threaded her fingers in Cosima’s hair, lightly scratching her scalp, and pulled her closer, as if their naked bodies could meld together as they moved as one. Cosima broke the kiss to stare deeply into eyes dilated with desire._

_"I will find a way to return," Cosima said. "I promise you."_

_Delphine smiled sadly. “Do you not know the dangers of promises you cannot keep?”_

_"But I can keep it," she said with quiet conviction, nuzzling Delphine’s cheek as she slipped a hand between their bodies. "Will you promise to wait for me?"_

_"No."_

_"No?" Cosima stilled, blood thundering in her veins._

_"I won’t wait. But I will promise that I’ll never stop searching for you. And one day…" Delphine gasped as Cosima thrust into her—_

Burying her blade into her opponent, Cosima grit her teeth as she pushed her weapon through the armor to pierce the soft flesh underneath. The samurai dropped his own sword in the snow with a soft thump, deep red staining the disturbed white. It had been a brief, but brutal battle, one of the most difficult that Cosima had survived. She had found her opening when, in the frenzy of attacks and counter-attacks, her mask had been ripped off and her opponent had hesitated.

The pause hadn’t lasted more than a fraction of a second. But it had been enough for Cosima to strike.

Holding Cosima’s wrists between gloves soaked in blood, the samurai shook silently as his legs gave out, pulling her to the ground with him. Cosima could hear and see each of his harsh pants of air, puffing out like steam from beneath his mask. The samurai released her wrists and raised a shaking hand toward Cosima’s face. She knew she should jerk away; should leave before she was surrounded by other guards. But the sound of his voice saying her name immobilized her.

No. Not _his_ voice. But hers. A voice she had long thought lost to her. A voice that had permeated her dreams for the better part of a decade.

Trembling, Cosima removed the samurai’s helmet and untied the mask to reveal…

She let out a strangled sob. _This isn’t happening. This can’t be…_

But it was.

Eyes glassy and unfocused, Delphine smiled. The same smile she had given Cosima only once before, up on their hilltop on a hot summer evening. And then the light left her. Agony like Cosima had never felt ripped through her body, blinding her to everything and everyone, even the imposing figure standing in the shadows, ordering the guards to set a perimeter around her, raise their bows, aim their arrows straight for her _—_

Heart clenching, Cosima cried out when she felt someone jostling her.

"Cosima? Cosima? _Merde_. Try to focus on my voice.”

It was Delphine. _Blonde_ Delphine.

"Delphine?" Cosima’s tongue felt cottony and thick in her mouth and her cheeks were dripping with tears.

Slowly but surely, Delphine shifted back into focus. They were in the elevator, again, on the cold metal floor, the doors closed, Delphine cradling Cosima’s face between her palms.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some loves last a hundred lifetimes. And sometimes, so do their scars. A Cophine AU within an AU, from the collective minds of the OBFrankenfic group.

Chapter Five

by OBCRACK

 

Delphine, with all the wisdom of a ten-year-old, had declared herself a _pessimistic realist._ Life made more sense in shades of black, white and gray, whereas the abusive color of the optimists made a mess of an otherwise tidy world. Where they saw free will, she saw the illusion of choice.

_Pragmatic, reflective, inflexible_ — these would be the boxes in which she opted to spend her life. Perhaps, these surges of color were at the heart of her aversion to literature, cinema, art. She saw the way such color played into the ebb and flow of society, made it feel vibrant even, but she watched from her monochrome corner as inevitably their intense denial left them exposed to the harshness of the world.

And yet…

Here she was now, confronted by a veritable rainbow of sensations previously impossible. She could feel her grip on the “can” and the “cannot” blurring with the force of the “happening now.” The push and the pull of the state where terror met curiosity had left her stuck in the unfamiliar, like someone else’s blood was coursing through her veins. The words of her grandfather still echoed in her head, _“The human being is capable of anything, Delphine. What matters are the circumstances.”_

Circumstances not dissimilar to being trapped in an elevator, holding someone who was still a perfect stranger not 20 minutes ago. Circumstances that demanded an enormous amount of colorful imagination that enveloped her like the love a mother holding her firstborn child moments after giving birth, with the same will to love, with the same fear of loss. This rose-colored empathy invaded Delphine’s body for the _second_ time in her life in the shape of—

“Cosima.” She shook her by the shoulders. “You are back with me now, ma belle.” Delphine’s voice hovered just above a whisper, and she hoped the fear in her eyes didn’t betray her smile.

Cosima’s breathing came in long, deep gasps that grew slower with each expulsion, the sloppy edges of memory were spilling into the present moment, in bright vivid detail. She placed her hand on Delphine’s waist over the would-be wound, and offered her tears as an apology. Delphine met her hand with her own and responded with a soft squeeze.

The cloud of their blended lives hung in the air, and for the moment they had found one another. It felt long overdue.

“I don’t want you to die,” pleaded Cosima.

“I haven’t,” soothed Delphine, her voice quivering, their mutual vulnerability providing solace for them both through the safety of understanding.

They leaned their heads together and Cosima’s fingertips found Delphine’s cheeks, tracing her chin.

“How can we be strangers?” she asked, skin on skin. She felt Delphine’s mouth part.

“I don’t even know what that means,” came the answer, preceded by a deep inhale, which took in both air and scent at once.

Cosima lifted her chin in search of her eyes and found them willing. In spite of the low light emanating from the elevator wall, her face was bright and striking, and Cosima imagined her taste. _Remembered_ it.

A blinking light caught her eye. The floor number flashed “7.”

“I think we’re stuck,” she said, turning her head to see.

Delphine’s eyes fell to Cosima’s neck and she let out a gasp, pulling away in a mixture of surprise and fear.

Her hand trembled over her mouth, poorly stifling an involuntary whimper.

“I’m sure it’s just for a few minutes.”

“Your neck. You’ve got a — Look…”

She fumbled through the various pockets of her briefcase.

“What is it?” asked Cosima, touching her own neck.

Delphine handed her a compact mirror.

She took it, and in the faint glow she could see a grisly scar around the base of her neck.

“Oh my god!” She pulled at her clothing, exposing the whole of it. “What the fuck?! _What the actual fuck?!_ ”  

She could no longer hold the mirror steady.

Cosima retreated to the opposite corner, as though a bit more distance might leave room for revelation. She closed her eyes so, hidden in the darkness, she could avoid whatever horrors lay just ahead, knees knocked in protest.

Delphine found the floor beneath her equally unstable and dropped.

Cosima looked up. “What is this? Some sick experiment with my life?!”

Delphine moved closer. If Cosima felt her space invaded, it certainly didn’t show.

“No, no! Of course not. We don’t do anything like this! This isn’t— There is no technology that can feel this real.”

“We?”

“No, listen—“

“You told me you were here for an interview!”

“I am, but— I already work for Dyad, I just—“

Cosima pleaded, her voice trembling.“Jesus Christ! What are you doing to me?! Just please— Just let me out!”

“I don’t control this, Cosima. You think I'd subject a person to this? I’m in here with you!”

“Yeah? Where’s your scar—“

They both looked to her abdomen. Cosima leapt across the floor, ripping at Delphine’s shirt, their hands grappling for control until she yanked it up to reveal — a four-inch long scar, right where she had been stabbed in their shared vision.

“Mon dieu.”

“I’m at the point where I don’t even know if that’s real.”

Cosima moved back, hands in the air, anger provoking tears and doubt stiffening her upper lip.

“Okay, yes. This does not look good—”  

“You’re getting good at stating the obvious,” Cosima mumbled.

Delphine, caught off guard by Cosima’s tone, stammered a bit as she searched for a reply.

“Maybe we are carrying some piece of these visions, these experiences, back with us. I don’t know, maybe there is a traumatic threshold where the brain is unable to distinguish between what is real and what is not. Death itself could be sufficient—”

“No! No!” said Cosima, shaking her head. “We have to stop this— fucking bullshit!”

Cosima's voice was explosive and deafening within the confined space.

“Cosima, I think we can see that we have no pain or discomfort.” Delphine lightly pressed against her scar, feeling for sensitivity.

Cosima staggered back from Delphine, arms up, smiling in exasperated disbelief.

“ _No pain or discomfort?!_ I’m pretty fucking uncomfortable with this whole ‘Lion, Witch And The Elevator’ situation. I’m not going to wait until I actually lose my head to—”

Steely-eyed determination washed over her, and she turned her attention to the elevator itself.

Cosima began to pound on the door, her anxiety-riddled stomach fueling each swing of her arm, her fingers prying to open it, but to no avail.

Delphine, in response, looked around for an exit. She stomped around on the floor, checking for a hollow sound.

Cosima noticed a panel cover below the buttons, and yanked it open. Inside was a mess of colored wires running off in every direction. She futilely tried to trace them to the door, but in a fit of impatience, grabbed a fistful and ripped them all out of the wall, pushing off with her foot for extra leverage. She stumbled back onto the floor, and the lights and buttons flickered, going dark.

Pitch black.

“Cosima! What did you do?” Delphine’s voice was shrill with fear.

“I pulled the wires, what do you think?” Cosima whispered.

“No, no! Please! We must get out! Abort the test! Abort the test!”

Cosima could hear Delphine pounding on the door, her breaths coming out in big, wheezing exhales. She felt a pang of responsibility. Suddenly—

The lights flickered back to life. They were suddenly awash in a glow of fluorescent overhead lights, the buttons were working and the floor numbers — were going up.

_…15, 16, 17…_

They laughed with the joy of welcome relief.

_...29, 30, 31..._

Delphine’s smile began to fade.

_…34, 35, 36…_

Cosima looked at the open panel of exposed wires, sparking. She gripped the cables in her hand. “How are we moving exactly?” she asked.

_…40, 41, 42…_

“And where are we going?” Delphine turned to face her, no remnant of a smile. “There are only 30 floors in this building, Cosima.”

_…48, 49, 50…_

They watched the numbers count up.

“So much for ‘rest for the weary’,” said Cosima.

Delphine leaned against the other wall, hiding her face in her hands. Cosima stared right through them.

“You said ‘Abort’.” She wasn’t asking.

Delphine didn’t respond.

“I knew it.”

“I just thought maybe you were right, maybe there is some experiment and I don’t know. I just said it—”

“—and then the lights came on!” Cosima shot back.

Delphine nodded, and then she started to cry, weeping into her hands.

Cosima recognized something delicate in her that she had overlooked. She looked so small and frail, gasping for air between cries, her hands shaking.

For a moment, she saw her again in the barn in France, covered in hay, out of breath from passion rather than tears.

_You will never see me leave you again._

This was different than the other times. She wasn’t being transported anywhere, she was remembering. It wasn’t the memory of something she saw, disconnected from a distance, but something she had experienced. The same way she might remember a moment from her childhood or a conversation with a former lover. It felt so far away, but so very real.

She could feel the fire of titillation ignite in her chest. It came so suddenly, almost as though a deep love had descended on her from the sky, and it grew stronger by the moment.

_I will never stop searching for you._

Delphine’s words echoed in her heart with a volume beyond mere recollection. These were not thoughts remembered, there was a voice speaking directly into her being.

“I think this is bigger than any test,” said Cosima.

“I was just thinking that same thing,” Delphine whispered back.

“You were?”

“Yes,” Delphine nodded, looking to Cosima for the first time since the lights came on. She looked almost serene. There was no trace of tears in her eyes. “I think there is a pattern in the visions, to use a simple word, that we have been seeing.”

“What kind of pattern?” said Cosima, standing up.

_A flash of a passionate, forbidden kiss._

Delphine also stood to her feet.

“Well, the French Revolution, Imperial Japan. On the surface they have little in common, but they both involved—“

“Us—” interjected Cosima.

“—being separated, either by death, or distance… or both.”

“Closer.  Just—be close to me,” said Cosima, taking a step forward. Delphine stepped in as well.

 “No, I don’t think it’s that simple. I think we are meant to do something, or learn something. I— don’t know exactly how to explain it.”

“Meant? By who?” Cosima’s incredulity getting the best of her.

“—I know it sounds crazy, but I know you. Cosima, look at me."

_Delphine moaning in the throes of passion._

Cosima felt her cheeks flush.

“You don’t have any strong feelings about this?”

_Their skin pressed up against one another. Cosima’s fingers gliding along the inside of her leg—_

“Yeah, I have some feelings.” said Cosima.

“—It’s as though these experiences, it’s like they are loops bringing us together and pulling us apart,” said Delphine.

“Wilder Penfield! He uh…thought that memories could be recreated and re-experienced with electrical impulses to certain sections of the brain,” added Cosima.

“—I don’t know… maybe we’re not even in an elevator right now. It could be anything.”

“Could be anything. Great. So, how do we stop it? Let’s keep our heads so we can keep our heads,” scoffed Cosima, touching her scar.

“Yes, it could be anything in the sense that all things are theoretically possible, but we have to make some decisions based on the information at hand. And all that we have right now is—” Delphine looked around the elevator, looking for anything that might be useful.

“—each other.” said Cosima.

Delphine lowered her eyes to find Cosima’s looking back at her. Both standing in the center of the elevator now. They looked deeply into each other, one searching for what she could not find, the other for what she had left unsaid.

_“The human being is capable of anything, Delphine. What matters are the circumstances.”_

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“No, it’s okay. I wasn’t—“

“I’m sorry this is happening to—“

“No, don’t worry, I don’t—“

Delphine, then, couldn’t for the life of her, solve the biggest mystery yet to exist - how is it possible to reconcile a life of unwavering predictability with the crisis of having fallen completely and immutably in love with the woman in front of you?

“Cosima. I think you should know—“

Then the elevator stopped.

The floor number read 154.

“Merde!” said Delphine, involuntarily.

They were both violently thrown away from each other into the elevator walls, pinned to the sides, their feet not touching the ground. The walls, ceiling and floor all shook with a thunderous force and Cosima expected the whole elevator to give away at any moment.

Thick steel walls wobbled back and forth like a shirt in the wind. The lights above them burst from the force, sending sparks raining down around them, reducing their visibility to a mere moment in between the darkness. At each flash, Cosima could see the horror in Delphine’s eyes, the only constant as the world fell to pieces around them.

“Delphine!” she shouted, but even her own voice was inaudible to her.

The green floor numbers had turned to red as they rapidly descended.

_25, 20, 8, 1, -10, -23,_ now too fast to count.

Faster.

The numbers shifted: _01:00:00_

_00:59:59, 00:59:58…_

A timer had just begun.

The faster they went, the more Cosima felt as though her body was going to be pushed through the wall itself. With no relief in sight and her wits readily abandoning her, she screamed.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

by thecirclesqaure

 

The elevator dropped so fast that Delphine couldn't even tell if she was falling anymore. It almost felt like she was floating. She clung to the handrail with both hands, her back pressed up against the corner.

Previously unthinkable forces pressed in on her from all sides, and she knew that she was not just fighting against gravity. No, something else — something much stronger — was at play here.

She watched the numbers tick by through her half-opened eyes. The digital face seemed to flicker in and out, until the numbers stopped making sense altogether. She closed her eyes because she couldn't stand the sensations in her chest, or in her stomach, or at the base of her spine.

She closed her eyes and she clenched her body, bracing for the impact that never seemed to come.

Distantly, in the back of her mind, she knew Cosima was falling, too. She knew Cosima's position, could feel her presence as both incredibly close and unbearably far. She knew that even if she was brave enough, even if she could pry her hands away from the handrail and reach out; she knew that Cosima would be just out of reach, already locked into her own personal free fall.

They were in this together; they were in this apart.

And that was the thought that finally drove her to cry out.

That was the thought that sent her screaming, her head back, her heart aching in despair.

She closed her eyes, but the lights flickered and hissed, and through her eyelids she saw flashing reds and oranges, yellows and blues.

"Just make it stop!" she shouted. "Just make it stop!"

And then it did.

Then she slammed to the ground, feeling the shock shoot up through her shins. She slammed to the ground and fell face first onto…

_Grass?_

She was afraid to open her eyes.

She already knew that she was no longer in the elevator. She knew by the feel of the grass beneath her palms. She knew by the way the light no longer hissed and flashed but shimmered and pulsed. She knew by the smell; musty earth and spring blossoms. She knew by the sounds; little chirping insects, subtle gusts of wind. She knew by the…

_Laughter?_

She opened her eyes and rolled onto her back. She found herself in the woods beneath a canopy of swaying leaves. And there, in one of the branches of the tree just above her, was a little girl, her skin dark and her smile wide. She laughed and laughed, pointing a finger down.

"You should have heard yourself!" the little girl said. "You screamed like a baby!"

_Cosima._

Delphine sat up, suddenly indignant.

"I did not!" she cried back, no longer surprised at the sound of a stranger’s voice coming from her mouth.

"You did, too! Just like this..."

The little girl cupped her mouth with her hands and let out a high-pitched squeal.

"Well, let's see you try it!" Delphine said, standing up and dusting herself off.

That's when she felt the grass between her toes. She looked down. Her small feet were a deep shade of brown, and covered in dirt and leaves. She looked at her own hands, too, finding them a similar shade, with an equal amount of dirt beneath her fingernails. She turned her hands over, and noticed several small scratches across her palms. Just looking at them made her palms burn.

But somehow she knew these cuts weren’t caused by the fall from the tree.

_No, those cuts are from the cotton,_ said a voice in the back of her mind.

The voice was both familiar and uncanny, like listening to a recording of your own voice.

She shivered.

"Well?" Cosima called from above.

"Well, what?" Delphine said.

"Well, get out of the way!"

Delphine stepped to the side, an excited energy rising up in her chest. She smiled and nearly bounced on her toes watching Cosima lean forward, reach for a branch to steady herself, and then finally, jump!

Delphine felt the fall with her, felt the earth shoot up into her own legs, up through her own spine. And when Cosima landed, tucking herself into a ball, and rolling back up onto her feet, Delphine laughed and clapped. Cosima raised her hands up, wide over her head, and gave an over-embellished bow.

Delphine clapped even louder.

"You looked just like her!" Delphine shouted, brushing the dirt from her friend's back. "You looked just like a real acrobat!"

"Almost," Cosima said proudly, “but not quite yet. We got to keep practicing.”

Cosima reached into the pocket of her dress — though the dress was little more than a rag hanging from her thin shoulders. She pulled out a folded up piece of paper. 

And in Delphine’s mind within the dream, she already knew what it was.

It was a flyer for  _The Spalding & Rogers North American Circus_ _on the Floating Palace!_

Delphine remembered the day Cosima had first shown it to her, pulling the flyer out after dinner and revealing it to her under the table. 

_Where’d you get that? — I found it out in the field. — In the field? — Yeah, it just blew in on the wind! Can you believe it?!_

Delphine remembered so many other days — Sundays mostly, when there was no master to quantify their hours — she remembered so many days filled with running through the woods, climbing the tallest trees, and scheming near the coolest streams. She remembered days of hiding away bits of food that they would take with them when they finally made a run for it.

They had the plan all laid out, they just had to get better at acrobatics first. 

Cosima pulled the flyer out and they looked at it again, each girl holding one side of the thin paper, and both girls leaning in until their heads almost touched. The ink had faded with time, but their excitement hadn’t. The acrobats jumped and flipped across the page in their red tights and yellow tutus; the men with dark moustaches, and the women with little yellow bows in their hair. 

_Just like the ones I tied into her hair_ , said the voice.

As if to confirm, Delphine glanced sideways at Cosima. It was true; there were two yellow ribbons tied at the ends of Cosima’s pigtails.

Another shiver. An anxiety. A desire to slow down.

But Cosima had no intention of slowing down. She folded the paper back up and tucked it back into her pocket. 

“Come on!” she said, shooting out like a cannonball.

“Where are you going?” Delphine called after her. 

“We need more practice!” she called back, not stopping. “And a bigger tree!”

“Cosi—!” Delphine tried to call, but the name got caught up. 

She coughed.

It didn’t matter anyway. Even if she could have said it, Cosima was already too far away to hear her and too stubborn to care. 

Delphine had no choice but to follow.

But with every step, Delphine’s chest grew tighter and tighter. She watched the yellow bows bouncing ahead of her. She watched the bottoms of Cosima’s feet as she ran. She watched Cosima reach up, pull herself onto the first branch of an ancient oak tree, and scramble up the branches as fast as a tabby cat, laughing as she went. 

Delphine did not laugh. 

No, when she arrived at the foot of the tree and looked up, she was horrified to see how high Cosima had gone.

_Too high._

“Co—!” she choked. “Cosi—!” 

But she couldn’t get the name out. Finally she resorted to simple hollering, waving her hands in the air with tears in her eyes. 

“No!” she shouted. “No! Don’t!”

"Watch out!” Cosima called.

“It’s too high, please!”

“Look out below!” Cosima said before pushing off.

She fell, her dress flying up, her pigtails trailing behind, the yellow bows flapping wildly at the ends. 

Delphine screamed, and for a moment her scream was the entire world. 

Delphine did not look. She closed her eyes. She closed her eyes shut tight. 

She didn’t look because she already knew that Cosima lay on the ground, her right leg twisted up behind her at the knee — twisted up at an angle that not even the most flexible acrobat could achieve. 

Delphine didn’t look, but she heard everything. She heard her own screams mixing with Cosima’s. She heard her own awful cries for help giving way to silence, because no one would come to help her. 

And though her eyes were closed, her limbs seemed to move on their own terms. Her hands found Cosima’s face. Her hands found Cosima’s hands. 

“It’s okay,” Delphine whispered. “I’ll carry you.”

Delphine only opened her eyes when she was out of the woods and half way across the cotton field, carrying Cosima on her back. She carried the load on her back both gently and diligently, Cosima murmured a prayer into her ear. 

“Oh, that I had wings like a dove,” she murmured. “I would fly away and be at rest.”

She talked about acrobats, circuses, running away. She talked about flying and about lightness. She talked about air and other nonsensical things.

And as Delphine carried her, she cursed herself. 

 

_This is my fault. I should have stopped her. I should have stopped her._

Delphine clung to Cosima’s arms, feeling the girl slip further and further down her back, until finally she felt the weight of Cosima’s body lift and lighten; until finally she looked down at her hands and realized she was not carrying Cosima at all, but only a sack of cotton burrs. 

It wasn’t spring anymore. It was harvest time, and all around her people were bent over, pulling the fluffy white burrs from the fields. She set the sack down, right next to the road, looking southwest, because she knew that was the direction they had gone. 

She ran into the road, and shading her eyes with her hand, she could just barely see the silhouette of the wagon train in the distance. And though they were already far, far away, she heard men’s voices.

_What are you trading today? — Ain’t got much use for a lame child. — Well, I ain’t got much use for her, either. What if I throw in the brother, too? — You got yourself a deal, Mister._

A handshake. A tip of the hat. An exchange of coins.

_Fifty-five, fifty-four, fifty-three.._

Delphine heard it all.

_Fifty-two, fifty-one..._

She stumbled toward the setting sun, but her master called her back to work.

_This is all my fault,_ she thought.  _I should have stopped her. I know I could have._

She stumbled forward, and then as if a hole had opened up right in front of her, she was falling again.

But only for a moment. 

Soon she was back in the elevator, back in her own skin, and back with Cosima. 

The elevator stopped abruptly. The lights turned on. The doors slid open.

Cosima cried out, crumbling onto the floor and clutching at her leg. 

“I’m sorry!” Delphine shouted. 

“It’s okay,” Cosima said. “There was nothing you could do.”

“No! No! I could have. I could have stopped you, I’m sure of it.”

Cosima laughed through her pain, reaching out for Delphine’s hand.

“Don’t be so sure,” she said. “In case you didn’t notice, I’ve got quite a stubborn streak.”

“No,” Delphine said. “No. We could have changed things. I’m sure of it.”

The timer ticked by above their heads. 

“How?” Cosima said. 

“I’m not sure yet.”

Somewhere through the walls came a harsh clanging sound, like gears turning. The doors closed. 

“Not again,” Cosima whispered. 

Delphine grabbed Cosima’s hand. They held tight to each other, preparing for the drop they both knew was coming. 

“I guess we’ll find out soon.”


	7. Chapter 7: Discoloration

**Chapter Seven**

By arabybizarre

 

" _How's the Mahi?" Delphine started slightly, gaze sluggishly moving away from the window it had been fixed upon for the last minute. Outside, the dusk of late evening had enveloped the street, the boats bobbing against the harbor-front dock like specters in the night. The red and yellow lights of the cityscape shimmered atop the water in wet galaxies, rippling with each small gust of wind._

_First ducking her head to the plate she'd barely touched, Delphine pushed some garnish around with her fork before spearing a sliver of meat. "It's delicious." She smiled, fearing the tightness at the corners of her mouth, before taking a slow bite._

_Her companion smiled back at her distractedly. Setting down his cutlery, he wiped the corners of his own mouth, replacing the napkin in his lap. "Are you sure," he asked, refilling his wine glass with the bottle sitting chilled beside the table. Without asking, he topped Delphine's off as well, though she'd only taken a few delicate sips. "If it's not to your liking—"_

" _Aldous," she began, stilling his hand with her own, "It's fine—it's very good." It was, she'd thought. But they'd enjoyed meals such as this so frequently lately – upscale, expensive, the strains of bland instrumental music tinkling quietly from the speakers, the lighting low – that she'd grown bored of it. It would be nice, she thought, to sit down for dinner in a sweater and a pair of jeans. Maybe someplace where the music was loud and the grease would collect in a suspicious puddle atop her plate._

_Even that seemed somehow wrong though. Frivolous. It all did now._

" _You've been quiet tonight. I just wondered."_

_She smiled again, reaching for her own wine glass. "Long day—you know. My workload… I can handle it, of course. But it will be completed so much more efficiently once I can get another set of eyes on it."_

_He nodded, seeming to accept this excuse. "Well, hopefully tomorrow's candidate will meet your qualifications."_

" _Yes, hopefully," she tersely agreed, glancing down at her plate again. If she were actually interviewing the candidate Aldous had chosen for her, she felt certain she would_ not _be impressed. The candidate she'd chosen, on the other hand…_

" _The sooner we find them, the better, right?" She looked up, smiling. He reached across the table for her hand. "You know, we've rarely had—" Aldous cleared his throat slightly, voice softening. "—a_ night _together these past few weeks. And I understand why. It's obvious how tired you are. However…"_

_Silence hung awkwardly. "I'm sorry," she said, though she wasn't sure why._

_He nodded again, his eyes suddenly brightening. "But… if you_ were _to move in with me—"_

" _Aldous—"_

_He raised one hand, continuing. "It would be so much more convenient, Delphine. For both of us." After a pause, he squeezed her hand and concluded, "I just want to take care of you. It's not always… safe, in this city. I suppose it's not really safe anywhere. But I have the means to protect you."_

" _I know," she replied, swallowing. She stared across the table at him, her chest constricting. How lucky she was, to have such an intelligent, self-assured man, who wanted nothing more than to care for her. A wealthy man. She_ knew _that. Yet, at the same time, she felt such hesitance at every step, such—_ boredom.

_She thought she loved Aldous. His intellect had intrigued her from their very first meeting. So, too, had his persistence, his intensity. In truth, there was something familiar about him, something she could not place. It had allowed her to fall into their relationship, in spite of her reluctance at his age and position as her superior, without much effort._

_Out of the corner of her eye, Delphine could see a young couple sitting at the table across the room from them. They were attractive, their attire slightly rumpled and their manner easy. The man hunched over the table, listening and watching while the woman captivated him with her words._

_Turning her hand palm up, clutching Aldous' hand, Delphine wondered if love—love, and nothing else—could be enough._

" _I want to have this conversation," she told him, "just not now. There is too much going on already." He seemed to deflate slightly, though there still remained that near-unsettling obstinacy in his gaze. "If our work at DYAD goes unfinished, there may not be a home for you_ or _I to return to. Once things calm down, we will talk. I promise we will. For now… I think this arrangement suits us both."_

_After a long moment, he looked up, smile still in place. His voice was callous when he said, "I know exactly what suits me."  
_

* * *

The elevator remained blessedly still, though their chests fluttered rapidly in anticipation. Cosima had gone stiff in Delphine's arms, her back against the wall, body braced for another fall. The blonde looked down at her, exhaling quietly. She could still see the pain lingering on the other woman's face.

"Do you suppose if we're quiet enough it will leave us alone?" Delphine's voice shook through her own joke, her voice a whisper.

Cosima snorted. "I'm not sure if playing dead works with… well," she said, smiling anxiously up at the blonde. "—whatever this— _it_ —is."

Delphine sunk to her knees, moving closer. "Can you stand?" Cosima tested her leg cautiously, extending it. "Slowly."

"I know." She placed both hands on her knee, bending, wincing only slightly at the movement. "It's such a… weird sensation."

"Does it hurt very badly?"

"I mean—it hurts. But it doesn't… throb. In fact—" She pressed her fingers gingerly into the muscle surrounding her kneecap, her eyes widening. Gently, she took Delphine's hand and guided it along her injury. "Can you feel that?"

"It's… it feels knotted."

"Yeah…" Cosima sighed. "The pain feels kind of far away. Dull. I know it's there, but it's like… there's something between me and it."

"The wrong body, probably," Delphine muttered, starting when Cosima eyed her strangely. "I mean—"

"Yeah. There's something to that." Cosima extended her leg fully, leaning farther back against the wall. She did not let go of Delphine's hand, but patted the spot beside her. "I don't think I want to stand right now," she said quietly, closing her eyes.

"Okay. I guess—" Delphine craned her neck back, watching as the numbers on the panel ticked disconcertingly down. Cosima pulled her hand into her lap, but did not open her eyes. "We'll just… relax for a moment, Cosima."

* * *

_Cosima eyed Felix warily as he placed a suspiciously neon drink in her hand, plopping down on the sofa beside her. He threw an over the back of couch, stretched leisurely, and rested his feet on the stack of newspapers sitting on the coffee table._

" _And what exactly is in_ this _?" She held the glass up to the light, squinting._

" _Oh, you know," Felix waved his hand dismissively, smirking, "A bit of Midori, Blue Curacao, some… other things. It's delightful—I promise."_

_Cosima recoiled as she sniffed the contents of the glass. "Christ, Fee. Nothing this colorful should smell so foul." He chuckled. "How is this_ delightful _?"_

" _Well, I didn't mean the taste." She narrowed her eyes dubiously, and he pushed the glass towards her mouth. "By the time that glass is empty, you will be feeling—"_

_She cringed after the first sip. "Delightful?"_

" _You catch on so easily, Darling." Despite the unpleasantness of the initial burn, the liquid seeming to corrode her taste buds, Cosima took another sip—anything to quell the anxiety currently roiling around her gut. Felix grinned at her, affection plain on his face, and she felt equal parts joy and shame. She had missed him terribly since he'd made the move to Toronto a year ago; but at the same time, she'd also felt some sense of relief at his departure._

_Their youth together had been wild—nights spent experimenting with drugs and alcohol, entire weekends wiped blearily from the slate the morning after they'd ended. San Francisco, at the time, had been on the decline. Most major cities were starting to crumble then, browbeaten by the throngs of the impoverished who were forced into urban centers by a failing economy, crime rates skyrocketing relative to populous. Cosima and Felix, like most working class kids, had only added to the problem, resisting authority at every opportunity._

_Academic allure had drawn her from delinquency. As revolt began to grow tiring, higher education had appeared as a beacon, a chance to_ get out _; and when she finally left to attend the University of Minnesota on scholarship, she'd taken her best friend with her. Things had worked out for a few years, but she slowly learned that Felix could never stay far from trouble, that the rebellion of their youth had not been, for a him, a mere phase._

" _I hope you're not too put off by this crowd," he said, shaking her from her musing. Felix was running with a ragged gang now—"No, not a_ gang, _" he'd insisted. "We prefer coalition. Sounds friendlier."_

" _They don't exactly look like professionals." It was true; but from the folders of careful planning they'd shown her – blueprints, meticulously drawn charts, statistics – they were_ organized. _She wouldn't tell Felix this though, a little afraid that he'd construe this observation as approval._

" _No," he laughed. "But we know what we're doing." She glanced then at his impish face, hints of the petulant boy he'd once been still skirting the edges, and sighed._

" _You're determined, aren't you?"_

" _We are—"_

" _No," she said, taking another sip. "Not you as in… all of you. But_ you, _Fee."_

_He paused a moment, turning a bit wistful. "I wouldn't have brought you here if I wasn't."_

You're going to get yourself in serious trouble, _she wanted to tell him, knowing that so much worse could happen. In major cities, the government was quick to combat even the most peaceful protests with militant force._

_And_ this _was not exactly peaceful._

_She hesitated too long, allowing Felix to continue. He leaned his head close to hers, as if to divulge a secret. "You say you've given all this up, Cos. And if you mean that—_ really _mean that—I won't push it. But no matter, whether you're running the streets like us, or holed up in some stuffy lab, you've still got that fight in you." He smirked, shoving her playfully. "It's a shite world out there, love. You're never going to be the type to sit down and take it."_

_She couldn't meet his eyes. He was right, in a sense. The rebellion of her youth had never left her—it had merely transmuted, taken new shape. If anything, the desire to fight for change was stronger now that it had ever been. She wanted to be angry at him for preying upon that, for using that weakness to goad her into joining him, but she couldn't muster the strength. She and Felix wanted the same things, ultimately. They'd just never be able to agree on the means to which they should be achieved._

" _I don't disagree with you, Fee. Not on everything." In an attempt to avert her eyes, her gaze landed on the newspaper at the top of the stack, right below his feet. The headline caught her attention. "But, look—" Pulling the paper from under his feet, she held it up for display, pointing at the headline:_ MYSTERY EPIDEMIC SWEEPS EAST COAST; Quarantines imminent as virus spreads. _"The violence, the protests; all that greed and laundering—it's awful, infuriating—yes. But politics aren't the only thing we have to worry about anymore._

" _In case you haven't noticed," she lowered her voice, words coming more quickly, "there's a lot of people getting sick out there. And not just with the garden variety maladies—there's worse stuff than cancer out around lately. Every epidemic we've had in the past… 15 years, maybe less—every flu epidemic or strange virus—it's all been leading up to something. Something modern medicine_ isn't _prepared for."_

_Cosima threw down the newspaper, shaking her head. She thought of the job interview she'd have the next morning. The DYAD Group had no need for this explanation. They understood the dangers of what was spreading. They were the ones fighting to control it, to kill it. With them, she could make a_ real _change._

" _It is a shit world," she said, falling back into the couch, taking a hearty swig of her drink. "But if you think we're all going to end up gunned down in the streets, penniless and oppressed, before the fever gets us…" She sighed, closing her eyes. "You've got another thing coming."  
_

* * *

"You know," Cosima cleared her throat, breaking the silence that had settled comfortably between them in the past few minutes. It felt like weeks since they'd stepped foot in the elevator originally. "You said earlier you were here for an interview, too."

"I did," Delphine said honestly, weariness sinking into her body. She suddenly felt like she could sleep for years.

"But then you told me you already work here?"

Delphine took a breath, unable to stop herself from laughing. "I was supposed to be interviewing _you._ "

Cosima turned, one eyebrow raised. She felt somewhat indignant, but the sound of Delphine's laughter calmed her. "So you knew who I was? The whole time?"

"I hadn't seen a picture—had only read your resume. And then… out of curiosity, I did some digging around afterwards, read your papers."

"Really?"

"Yes. I'm sorry," Delphine looked over at her sheepishly. Cosima smiled. "Even after the elevator stopped, I still assumed we'd be on our way to the interview in ten minutes. It would've been unprofessional to give anything away."

"Unprofessional?" Cosima's eyes widened, recalling the charged moment that had occurred right after the elevator stopped, when she'd first taken Delphine's hand. She'd been so overcome then, with a wanting both physical and mental. It had been unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. She shook her head.

"I know," Delphine said quietly, her cheeks coloring. After another moment, her brow furrowed, and she began rubbing her temple. "It's so… my god. Thinking back, I wasn't even supposed to interview you. My—my boss had chosen another applicant, but I was dissatisfied with their work." Her eyes gleamed suddenly. When she spoke again, her voice was near cracking. "I _chose_ you. Even just seeing your name on paper, I—I couldn't resist."

Cosima's pulse quickened, her next words breaking around their sarcasm. "That's some fucking coincidence."

"But it isn't," Delphine hastily said, gripped with urgency. "The work we are doing at DYAD right now—you could only know the half of it. We're studying this super-bacteria, yes—this viral mutation. The work is imperative. But not all of… the _means_ are quite as ethical as I'd originally hoped."

"What do you mean?"

"There are…" Delphine frowned, averting her gaze. Cosima could see hints of disgust there. "Human trials, talk of—" She glanced up suddenly at where the security camera had been, lowering her voice. "—talk of _commoditizing_ the disease."

"What? Are—are you kidding?"

Delphine shook her head, eyes closing. "We are divided here. It is why I had to choose my own partner." Her eyes opened, filled with resolve. "I fully intend to find a cure. But I do not intend for my superiors to get their hands on it."

"Jesus, Delphine." Cosima could not meet her eyes for a moment. When she turned to her, her gaze held no judgment. Only inquiry. "So, why me?"

"I—" Delphine struggled for words, her cheeks flushing. "Would you believe me if I said— _intuition_?" The blonde paused, running a hand through her hair. A day ago, all of this would have seemed so foolish to her. So impossible. Now, it only seemed inevitable. "Cosima, when we are inside of these… these visions—or whatever they are—what is it that you feel? When you see me?"

The brunette's mouth went dry. She wanted to stand, or to look away, but she felt rooted to the spot, arrested by Delphine's gaze. "It's so hard to explain," she began.

"Is it?"

Cosima sighed. "Well, it's—it doesn't make sense, is the problem."

"None of this does. But it's going to happen, regardless."

"True. It's, uh… well. I just know you, Delphine. Intuition—just like you said. I knew you then, in all those lives. Even when you had a different face, or a different name. And I know you now, too." Delphine nodded, offering Cosima a soft smile.

"So, it was just… the familiarity?"

"No." Cosima's voice lowered, and she glanced down at their linked hands. "I loved you, too. Very much."

"And now?" Delphine's voice was just above a whisper. When the brunette met her eyes, there was very little vulnerability, however. Just a sense of knowing, of waiting.

"It's still there." Cosima could almost see the blonde's breath catching in her throat. The tightness in her own body seemed to lessen, to snap in relief. She forgot about the phantom pains in her neck and leg for a moment, the ache having moved farther away. "And that couldn't just be—I mean—it's not possible for any of this to just be a… a hallucination. We can feel the pain, Delphine. We have the scars." She paused, brow furrowing. "We've lived those lives, right?"

The blonde swallowed, nodding. "Yes, I think so."

Cosima smiled. "And it was always you and I?" Delphine nodded again. "Always together." The thought warmed the brunette until the pain in her neck and leg roared back into the forefront of her consciousness. "But always apart, in the end."

"Always apart." The last life was fresh in Delphine's mind. She could still feel the heat of the sun on her neck, the glare in her eyes, as she watched Cosima – so optimistic, so sweet – being carted away from her. "Always _pushed_ apart," she amended, a sudden spike of fury clenching her stomach. "By someone else—some _thing_ else."

"But why?" Cosima stared at the ceiling, grimacing. "How many times does this have to happen?"

"I don't know," Delphine said, mind racing. She thought, abruptly, of her first science experiments as a child, playing with magnets. Trying to push together two like charges, time after time, thinking herself powerful enough to force the attraction, only to be repelled. And, too, the glee she would feel holding the unlike charges at opposite ends of her desk, watching them collide when she would let them go. "The attraction, the bond—it would have to be so strong, to have two people coming together, again and again like this. I mean—" She raised an eyebrow. How ironic this all was for someone who had never considered herself a romantic. "— _profoundly_ strong."

"Yeah…" Cosima sat up straighter, her leg stiff. "But then that pattern—to be pulled apart every time—the opposing force would have to be even stronger. Equally determined."

"Exactly." Delphine shook her head. "Mon dieu. None of it has ever been in our control, has it?"

Cosima was quiet for several moments, deep in thought, when the creaking of shifting machinery once again sounded from above. She startled, clutching Delphine's hands more tightly. The blonde glanced up at the timer, frantically this time, her heart skipping a beat. _00:49:41._ Suddenly, Cosima placed her hand on Delphine's cheek, directing her attention.

"Out of our control, huh?" The brunette's voice had risen, steeling itself. Delphine nodded slowly, the red console numbers imprinted in bright spots behind her eyes. "The second you start thinking like that, you _give up_ control. You leave it open for the taking." The fire in Cosima's eyes now was one that Delphine could remember. It took her breath away, as it had dozens—perhaps even _hundreds_ of times before. The elevator lurched, and the blonde had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out in alarm. "We know that now, don't we? This time… we can see it all. This time is different."

The lights flickered rapidly, the pulleys and gears rumbling as they resisted suspension. Delphine's eyes closed, pulse thumping in anticipation of the drop that was to come. Cosima gave her another tug though, grounding her.

"Look at me," Cosima insisted, voice rising to overcome the sounds of the failing elevator. Unable to resist, Delphine opened her eyes, the brunette staring at her with intense resolve, safety. _"This time_ is _different, Delphine._ Listen—when we fall into… whatever this is—the next one—we cannot lose each other, all right? We _know_ what is happening. We cannot let it overwhelm us. Okay?" Delphine nodded tentatively. "No—be confident. I'm confident in us.

"Just… take a deep breath. Feel my hand in yours. Feel my warmth on your cheek. Remember… remember the color of my eyes." Cosima smiled suddenly, if only a little bit. It was lopsided, defiant. When she continued, her voice was quieter, though no less commanding. "Remember that moment, before any of this started, when I took your hand, and gave you my name, and we were just—"

"Cosima Niehaus."

"—and Delphine Cormier." The brunette paused, her smile growing wider. "They can't change who we are. None of this can. You just have to remember that."

It was sheer impulse then, sheer _need_ that propelled Delphine forward to capture Cosima's lips with an intensity that frightened even herself.

Color erupted behind her eyes in the same instance the lights cut out, the elevator falling once more.

* * *

"If you leave the house after dark, make sure that you are accompanied by no less than a group of four others." _When things started to get really bad back home—when walking to the market for a carton of milk before supper became a potential danger—the police department had gone door-to-door handing out public safety pamphlets. Cosima had been eighteen at the time, and had seen this precautionary measure for what it was—an excuse for the police to invite themselves into your home without warning, to root out suspicious operations under the guise of goodwill._

_Walking in groups was frequently pressed, as was sticking to designated police "watch routes," and remaining within the class boundaries proportionate to, or most closely aligned with one's socioeconomic status. Cosima had never been very good at taking others' advice though. She preferred walking where she pleased._

_In the few times she'd gone to Toronto to visit Felix, she'd always enjoyed walking along the harbor. Over the years, the waterfront, without any official delegation, had become a province of wealth. Here, some of the finest restaurants and boutiques remained standing, carefully guarded both day and night, allowing the top tier to maintain their lavish lifestyles with a sense of normalcy._

_This was the bubble—a place where one could pretend that the world was not as violent and sickly as it was just a few short blocks outside of its bounds._

_On a fair spring night one year prior, Felix and Cosima had donned their finest clothes and taken a taxi down to the harbor, arm in arm. They'd spent whole paychecks on steak and champagne, and bought soft, shimmery scarves for each other in one of the swanky retailers. They'd been, for one evening, as they had been as adolescents—the best of friends._

_Now Cosima was half drunk, the evening only half spent, and she was alone. Felix's talk of change, of radical action, had made her feel unbearably separate from him. The realization of just how different they'd grown to be in recent years – in the past few months even – made her chest ache._

He's going to get himself killed, _she thought, standing against a railing overlooking the dock. Her reflection undulated darkly below her, changing shape on the surface of the water. In the distance, sirens blared, no doubt racing to some new disaster; but the alarms drowned in the sounds of the people sipping martinis and eating dinner on the enclosed patio across the street._

_A breeze ruffled her shirt, and Cosima shivered, drawing her sweater more tightly around her chest. She pushed off from the railing, walking leisurely along the edge of the dock, eyes on the water. It was barely ten past nine._

_She kept her head down as an officer, the Kevlar thick atop his uniform, strode past. It was only natural, the way she stiffened as he walked by. She'd never be able to shake that old wariness. Once a few yards were between them, she raised her gaze again._

_She was directly in her line of sight then, caught underneath a street lamp. Cosima couldn't help the way she stared as the woman, in profile, hailed a cab on the corner. The tight-fitting black and white dress she wore seemed made for her body, even from a distance. Cosima slowed, taking in her elegant blonde hair, pulled tight at the back of her head; the contrast of red lipstick against pale skin; the way the light seemed to hug her body._

" _Ma'am." Cosima flinched, turning on her heel. Her heart was in her throat as the officer addressed her. He only took a few short steps forward, however, maintaining distance. "It's getting late. I would advise you make your way home soon, or find a group."_

" _On my way home now, sir. Thanks for your concern." She offered the man one of her winning smiles, the flutters in her heart tapering off as he returned the expression._

" _You're quite welcome, ma'am. Take care now."_

" _You, too." She didn't turn away until the officer began walking again in the other direction. Her gaze returned to the corner. The woman was standing outside the door of a waiting taxi, eyes wide, a curious expression on her face. Cosima followed her gaze, startling again when she realized what had captured her attention._

_Not ten yards in front of the brunette, a small girl with pale skin and chestnut curls hopped along the sidewalk. Baffled by this behavior, Cosima scanned the concrete, noticing a crudely drawn hopscotch court, outlined in red chalk. The girl wobbled just slightly, finding balance on her left foot, before hopping onto the next blocks, feet spread. By Cosima's approximation, she couldn't have been more than seven or eight-years-old. That she was playing on the sidewalk, alone, at nine pm seemed not only unusual, but extremely dangerous._

" _Hey—" Cosima began, taking a step forward. She stopped when the girl looked sharply over her shoulder to meet her. The emptiness of her eyes made Cosima's blood run cold._

_There was the sound of a voice on the corner then, a car door opening. Shivering, Cosima turned to find the entrancing woman ducking inside of the cab. She felt compelled to say something—even went so far as to open her mouth, but stopped when she realized how foolish, how pointless it would all be._

_Shaking off this ridiculous impulse, she turned to the girl again. However, the sidewalk was empty—the chalk outline wiped away. She stared ahead, mouth gaping, watching the departing taillights of the taxi disappear from her periphery._


	8. Chapter 8

Part VIII

by Cophinaphile

 

TORONTO, 2067- Present Day

Bile rose to the base of his throat; rage pulsed between his temples, and shock pierced the crevices of his ocular orbits stabbing through into his brain.  It was, by this lifetime, a crippling gestalt; no longer unexpected and yet somehow viciously startling. It slashed a chasm through his psyche; orienting him to a perpetually forgotten destiny…

It was her.

How had she circumvented his screening protocols?  

_“...hopefully tomorrow's candidate will meet your qualifications."_

_"Yes, hopefully," she tersely agreed, glancing down at her plate again._

The realization ran through his gut like a blade: Delphine.

 

IMPERIAL JAPAN, 1838

 

_Hidden in the shadowy corner of the bakufu’s courtyard, he saw the veil lift from before Delphine’s eyes as she reached to touch the cheek of her ignorant, and now horrified, assailant.  From his occluded perch he had heard the protracted keening of agony whose source was the very center of the earth itself; the crippled warrior was simply a conduit for its resonance. From her being, the cry of two souls cleft apart rang through the air, stilling the world as its echoes swept across the hills._

__

_It was her._

__

_Delphine had given herself to him in recompense for the right to wander and wield her katana to his purposes, a freedom unfamiliar to her sex.  He had worshipped her; a supplicant in the cold shadow of her pragmatism.   She did not want him; she longed for another. This he knew, but he longed to push aside the cascading silk of her black hair as she moved on top of him to find the blankness of her indifference replaced by the blackness of desire.  Despite his caresses and declarations of lust and, eventually, love, his feelings ripened unrequited._

__

_When she returned to his bed, after weeks or sometimes months, always victorious but eternally defeated, she met his thrusts with silent tears, petitioning forgiveness from to the absent lover he had sworn to dispatch should he actually return._

__

_And here she was. The wailing warrior, soaked in the blood of their beloved. He stepped from the shadows and approached the grotesque tableau before him, intent on fulfilling his oath. He retrieved the katana, abandoned to mourning and gripped it tightly; his eyes fixed on the interloper as he lifted the blade over his right shoulder, preparing to strike; but vengeance stilled his death blow at the last moment.  Their spirits would not be united by his hand._

When he saw her on the closed-circuit monitor, he slammed his hand down on the control, rewinding the feed. Quick to his feet, he moved closer to the lobby monitor.  Her figure suspended in mid stride, initiated forward movement again. He knew her, almost instantly now, she who had been a stranger for so many centuries, she who had taken from him what was most precious, so many times, she whose suffering had not just pleased him, but aroused him.

VERSAILLES,  1789

_“I will not beg for scraps at my own table,” the Marquis seethed through clenched teeth._

__

_“Mon amour, you are imagining things; what could I possibly want for that you cannot give me; that you have not given me?” Her words were clipped, tight, nervous; she made to caress his temples and he jerked away, throwing his hand across her face, sending her crashing backwards to the ground._

__

_“Nor will I play your fool!” In three aggressive strides he was upon her, bent low, his gloved finger a hair’s breadth from her eye.   Anger, frothing from his mouth, dripped onto her alabaster skin, “Not yours! And certainly not hers! Did you think, because of her sex, I would allow you to make a mockery of me?” He grabbed at her wrists, pinning them to the hard wooden floor beneath them, then moving them up above her head so he could hold them with one hand, reaching the other down to free his growing passion. “How foolish will you feel, Delphine, when you watch her die at my command? How foolish? How foolish? How foolish?”_

__

_In her bed chamber, the lady’s maid prepared a basin of warm water and a supply of soft cloth._

_As he stared at her across the teeming masses, lusting for blood, he waited. Watching her as she witnessed her whore’s head being cradled in the guillotine, metal death looming above, surely Delphine would avert her eyes; turn her back on this commoner who had claimed her heart. She surged desperately forward toward the platform, unable to advance more than a few steps through the throng, and yet her eyes never wavered—  neither did his, lusting to see the connection between them severed.  He heard the blade accelerate in its track, yet her eyes stayed fixed, tears now escaping the edges, and as the dull thud of fallen flesh met his ears, he saw her legs tremble and her mouth quiver, but she never looked away, the gleefully ironic cheers of the crowd making sport of his failure._

He pulled up the visitors log; against every safeguard he had designed, she was here. Cosima Niehaus.  Her name echoed through his temporal lobe joining the cacophony of other names by which he had known her; they belonged to each other, the three of them; he had come to see that.  They were united in a dance of desire and destruction, and he was the wrecking ball.

NORTH CAROLINA, 1855

_A chain jangled at the yoke of a wagon; the smell of cotton and burlap hung in the midday heat. The harvest was on and he wanted to finish the south forty before sunset. His aim was to unload the cripple girl today; auction was on Saturday; she and her brother, if needed, would fetch enough to buy a full-grown man. Neither would be missed with a new buck in the fields._

__

_She had no one but the other little pick-a-ninny to miss her; they had been close before she’d gone lame, but now. Never a moment apart; this one cared for that one, worked fast as the devil and gave full half of her burrs to the cripple._

__

_The next day, and everyday after, the pace of the girl’s work slowed. The tears that trailed salt in rivers down her face, dried ghostly white against the darkness of her skin. Her sacks no longer overflowed.  In time, it took the lash to pull from her a single day’s work.  Try as he might, he could not look away from her sorrow. Could not harden his heart against her pitiful deterioration, though he tried._

__

_“Stop that snivelin’ ya hear” he would mumble to her as he passed._

__

_“Yass’ir” she would sniff, but still she wept._

__

_They buried her that winter, under a tree with limbs impossibly tall._

 

The lead pendulum of fate knocked a hole through his ribcage filling his heart with a burden impossible to bear. His postured bowed.  He no longer wallowed in the rage of betrayal or usurpation, pride compelling him to wrest the lovers apart.  Manacled to their doom, he had grown weary.

Defense had become an art form, a science, a desperate construction of castles on clouds…

If he could only just keep them apart, he would not have to destroy them.

_______________________________________________________

 

His heart raced in time to the beat of his heels on the polished floor.  The echo of  the stairwell door crashing against the firewall chased him down the stairs. His legs moved so quickly that he half expected them to collapse underneath him or to fall one millimeter off target and send him crashing off of concrete corners, but time was of the essence, and caution was a luxury he could not afford. None of them could.  As he descended, he practiced his deceit, _Ms. Niehaus, how kind of you to join us, if you will only follow me.  Dr. Cormier could not be here today and I’ll be filling in.  We at the DYAD have been very impressed with your research._

At the lobby level door, he paused, peeking through the slit window for a glimpse of the woman’s distinctive hair.  He straightened his jacket and tie, blowing a deep runner’s breath through his pursed lips.  His calm facade would be his only advantage. She would never be persuaded by the panic he struggled to subdue.   This door opened with a quiet click as he moved in quick strides toward the elevator lobby, eyes scanning the streams of people moving in and out of the building, while wiping tell tale sweat from his temples and what used to be his hairline.   A nervousness had infected his gait, his stride length stuttered as he struggled to direct his actions.  It may have been his indecision, his frantic eye movements or the length of his descent from the 5th floor security suite, but by the time he recognized his opportunity, the doors were literally closing on it. His heart sank in horror as polished metal slid to mask a sickening tableau: Delphine Cormier offering a curious smile to the woman with whom she was about to fall in love again.

All pretense of coolness dropped, he propelled himself toward the elevator as fast as he could, cursing and shoving people out his way as he ran.  He eyed the call button— its orange glow preserving his hope of intervention, but the moment before his open palm made contact, a hollow grey circle appeared in its place.

“Shit!” he hissed, through clenched teeth, his tight jaw holding back a torrent of other oaths.  The side of his fist slammed into the call button over and over again; its glow restored but not his hope.

 

“Come on; come on; come on,” he seethed, his body vibrating with anxious energy.  He picked up the red handset on the wall and barked into it, “Marion Bowles, to the lobby!......  Well find her! Now, God damn it!”  He slammed the receiver  back down in the cradle and pounded his open palms against the steel doors, finally wedging his fingers into the center seam and prying with all of his strength.

The tension of a thousand lifetimes pulsed through his joints, until the chime that signaled the return of the carriage froze him mid-breath.

The space between seeing and knowing was vast, filled with a heartbeat whose single measure stretched across millennia.   

The elevator car was empty.

  
He had failed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some loves last a hundred lifetimes. And sometimes, so do their scars. A Cophine AU within an AU, from the collective minds of the OBFrankenfic group.

Going Up: Chapter 9-- The Origins

By Tatarrific

 

* * *

 

 

**Kingdom of Osraighe, 862**

 

Cerball mac Faelain surveyed the great hall of his homestead, basking in the raucous din of the festivities.  All the guests, a hundred-some strong, were there to celebrate his upcoming union with Deirdre mac Ruanaid, the youngest and fairest of Mael Ruanaid’s daughters.  Their marriage would tie his household to that of the ailing High King, forestalling an otherwise inevitable war of succession.  

 

Cerball canted his head to the side, taking in the sight of his betrothed.  Deirdre sat a few seats away from him at the banquet table as custom demanded, her fair hair curling softly about her face, the golden brooch he gifted her - sigils of their two houses, a fox and a deer, intertwined in play - glistening against the deep green of her dress.  Her head was bent toward Father Finian, the grizzled priest no doubt trying his best to ingratiate himself with the woman who was soon to have a large say in Osraighe affairs, and Cerball took leave to observe her unimpeded.  

 

The bards of Ulster were not prone to exaggeration when they sang of the beauty of the Ruanaid offspring, with Deirdre the family’s crowning glory - her pale hair shone even in the sputtering light of the great hall, full lips standing in stark contrast to the soft glow of her skin.  A rose dropped in the snow, they had been described. Cerball shook his head at the fanciful thoughts, yet was unable and, if he were to be honest with himself, unwilling to stop them.

 

Yes, she was fair, more so than he had expected, but he was more taken by what hid behind the feminine exterior.  His mind flashed back to their first meeting, a week prior.

 

 _He stood in the center of the great hall, his hound uneasy at his feet, the animal aware of his sour mood.  Even at death’s door Mael Ruanaid, pushing four-score on the earth, refused to waste an opportunity to underscore his status.  Cerball knew the old man’s cohort had arrived near an hour ago, the men riding at the fore boisterously singing of Mael’s victory at_ _An Bhóinn_ _and his crowning at Lia Fáil._

 

_He knew these petty insults for what they were, a game of comeuppance, the old stag seeking to rattle the wily fox of Osraighe, put him at a disadvantage.  Though half the age of Mael, Cerball was no fool, had himself used a man’s pride to trigger a heated, impulsive response he could exploit.  Though he recognized the game for what it was, he found himself unable to stay above it, growing even more dismayed at his own predictability._

_When the door finally opened with a solid creak he set his features into a mask of placidity, the tight cast of his jaw the only cue as to the extent to which Ruanaid’s tactics had provoked him. It was as such that he was unprepared when she walked in, eyes cast down, golden hair loose about her shoulders, fingers of her hands nervously twined with each other. She was wearing a simple dress, unadorned but for a gold brooch fastening her cloak at the shoulder, the fawn-colored wool a perfect complement to her complexion._

_She took a few steps in and curtsied, eyes still on the ground.  “With apologies for our tardiness, Sire.  My father’s horse caught lame and he is tending to it in the yard.  He sent me ahead to relay his apologies, if it please you.”_

_She was meek, he could tell, because she knew that this was yet another slight, the old man sending a woman, even if she was his daughter, even if she was beautiful, in his stead, and she expected to bear the brunt of Cerball’s justified ire.  He however, could no longer bring himself to bristle at the indignities bestowed upon him by the High King, not when the gentle slope of her bent forehead, the straight line of her nose drew his eye to the redness of her mouth.  Aye, the bards of Ulster did not lie._

  _“No apologies needed when he sends such a beautiful emissary.  Deirdre, is it not?”_

  _It was then that she looked up at him, hazel eyes meeting his, and he noted the brief flicker of surprise in her eyes, saw the momentary downturn of her lips willfully erased by a pliant smile.  Ruanaid’s bards did not need to embellish when singing of her beauty, but he, balding and lame, face pockmarked with the full brunt of his twoscore years with a leg nearly cut in half in battle, had paid his bards handsomely to spread far and wide the tales of a man still in his prime, bold in battle and virile at the top of his throne._

 

_It was in that moment he saw her for what she was, as she squared her shoulders in quiet resoluteness at the reality of her betrothal; he was not a young man and he was not a handsome man, but he was a king who hoped to be The King.  She was Ruanaid’s daughter, reared by a man who murdered his own brothers in order to remain unchallenged on his throne, who sent off his youngest child to a man more than twice her age in order to eke out another few summers atop that gilded chair._

_She was no simpering child - she would step willingly into this marriage and seek to be not a wife, but a Queen.  Cerball watched the subtle, swift interplay of emotions on her face and felt his loins tighten with excitement.  Ruanaid may yet have his few years in the High Seat, and Cerball would give them to the old man willingly, for Ruanaid had bestowed to him an immeasurably more precious gift - a woman worthy to be his Queen._

 

Cerball cut his eyes back to the revelers before him, three distinct groups among them: his men the most numerous, seated at the long tables against the right wall; Ruanaid’s contingent dourly occupying the tables along the left; and betwixt them, Olaf’s men, the Vikings making up in rowdiness what they lacked in number.

 

At his own table, laid out perpendicular at the top of the room, sat their leaders - Ruanaid with his eldest son to his right, the flame-haired Olaf to his left and beyond him Deirdre and Father Finian.  His eyes were drawn to her again as the Viking leader laid a meaty paw on her shoulder, gesturing toward the front of the room.  He felt his spine stiffen at the forward gesture but, as though she knew his mind, Deirdre’s eyes cut to him with a gentle smile even as she inclined her head toward the Viking with polite interest.  Cerball relaxed back into his seat feeling a smile stretch his thin lips in response.

 

Fair she was, his bride to be, but her mind was keener even than her beauty, and keener still her instincts.  A week had passed since their first meet and a week still to come until their union, and already he felt as though she knew him, knew him as a man and as a king.  It was she who suggested he invite the Viking brutes to the celebrations leading up to the wedding, help cement their fledging alliance to Osraighe.  “Perchance,” she’d said, her lips a thin line, “Sire could use the opportunity to show Mael Ruanaid how you have tamed the savage invaders, bade them sup from your plate.”

 

Tamed they were not, and savage they were, but he alone among the Gaelic clans was able to engage the Vikings under Olaf in a detente, ease the raiding upon his lands.  Ruanaid need not know how tentative the peace between them was, and if feeding the Northmen and plying them with mead for a fortnight was the cost of gaining advantage over the High King, it was a small price to pay.

 

And there again, he mused, grew his admiration for the woman soon to grace his chambers.  It was but a week they met, and yet he felt he _knew_ her, the lass brought up under Mael, unsentimental despite her sex, possessing all the wiles bestowed upon women but little of the empty emotion they so keenly suffered from.  No, she was astute of mind and clear in her duties - it was he who found himself, a grown man at this solid point in his life, awash in unexpected emotions.  It was he who sought out her company over the past week, measured each meet by his success at drawing out a tinkling laugh from her, even engaging her in discussions on strategies for combating the Vikings.  He was surprised, then intrigued and finally taken by her knowledge of the Viking culture, settlements, and past battles.  

 

A thin sound of harp strings being plucked cut through the din, and Cerball faced front, taking in the sight of a slight figure striding forth from one of the Viking tables.  It was the time for the Viking bard to come forth and entertain the assembled guests, he realized, half curious.  Both he and Ruanaid had instructed their story tellers to avoid the usual fare - tales, some embellished, some not, of their masters’ victories over vanquished foes, often each other - and focus more on the ribald and romance.

 

He bent his head forward, squinting. No, his eyes did not fool him - the bard's slight stature did betray a female form. Though she wore her hair long and knotted in the female fashion she was clothed in a short tunic and breeches, and her long fingered hands, busy plucking a jaunty tune on her harp, were covered in the permanent ink the invaders were so fond of. It would be like the Norsemen to make a mockery of bardistry by putting the harp in female hands and then try to make a man out of her. Had it not been for her garb and garish markings she would have been fair enough, though, an elfin face framed by dark hair was pleasing to the eye, a wide smile transforming it from merely pretty to radiant.

 

Cerball looked around his table, gauging reactions to the Viking affront. Ruanaid, to his right, seemed unperturbed, perhaps even slightly amused as he shared words with his son. To his left he could see Father Finian scowling, hand marking the sign of the Cross, while Deirdre stared ahead, mesmerized.

 

His attention was snapped forward when a clear voice rang out, the lilting inflection of her gaelic unmistakably foreign.

 

"If it please my lords and the lady," the bard began, bowing deeply, her harp silenced, "I should like to speak a tale of gods and mortals and the one thing they both share - love."

Cerball leaned back into his seat, feeling strangely caught out at the subject of her tale, as though exposing his very own recent musings to the room.

 

The bard continued, and soon his unease was replaced by wonder, the strange woman's words drawing him in.

 

“This is a tale of the wrath of a jealous God and the curse he put on all lovers everywhere. It begins-"

 

"Oi, Grima!" Olaf banged his cup against the table, cutting off the bard. "Weren't you to tell the one about Loki and the drunken valkyries?"

 

The woman shot Olaf an exasperated look, cutting off the large man with a curt reply in the Viking tongue, then bowed, Cerball noted, in the same exaggerated fashion that betrayed insolence, to the whole group.

 

"That was the tale my lord requested, however, I am but Bragi’s mouthpiece and when the god of poetry speaks, I follow." Her face turned serious then, almost reverential, and she looked at Deirdre directly. "I tell the tale of souls split apart and reunited."

 

Breaking eye contact, the bard set down her harp and bowed her head, collecting herself.

"In the beginning the gods, both Aesir and Vanir, settled in Valhalla and begot their offspring. It was a time of comfort and tranquility, for the gods were young and their children, born of the earth, were happy."

 

Grima’s voice was melodic, carrying through the din of the great hall, and Cerball found himself getting drawn into the tale.

 

"The gods, Thor chief among them, Freya at his side, created the souls for their children first, a puff of Thor’s breath animated by Freya’s kiss, then shared each soul between two bodies. Some souls enlivened bodies of the same sex, two men or two women, while some were different - it was as each soul felt it should be. The children were forged together and joined at the hip bone, greeting each day with the same breath and bidding good bye each night with a kiss, and Freya, their mother, goddess of love and hearth, forged a word for them: soulmates."

 

She paused, hand against her breast, as overcome by a strong emotion.  Her eyes burned with a quiet ferocity as she gazed at Deirdre, the blonde, Cerball noted, caught within the spell of the story, hand pressed against her chest in a mimicry of the bard.

 

Grima continued, pacing.  "They knew only love and unity in their lives until such day as they lost it all. For gods are fickle and jealous and the Aesir and the Vanir soon grew querulous with each other and the halls of Valhalla rang with the din of their weapons.

 

"The children could do naught but observe in distress the fight among their parents, taking no part. Thor, the Mighty, bade them join him and grew angry when the children turned him down, saying they could no more take up arms against one of their parents than they could against each other.”

 

She paused, dark eyes sweeping her audience, reflecting the tumult within.  She raised her arms skyward, revealing tattooed snakes curling up sinewy forearms.  “Thor’s anger was bitter and he lashed out against his children.  ‘You shall lose everything you hold dear for this betrayal,’ he cursed them, raising his hammer high, ‘Your kin, your home, and your other half!  Begone!’  And with that he struck his hammer down upon the sky, struck it again and again, raining his ire upon the earth, and upon his children.  His blows broke the sky open and rained upon the earth a shower of thunderbolts, one for each of his children, striking them and cleaving each of them in half.”

 

Grima stopped, her hands held aloft before her, mimicking a thing broken in half.  Cerball found himself leaning forward, breath caught within his chest.  After a beat, she continued, voice subdued.  “Cleaved in two they were, the physical wound of their separation cauterized by the burn of Thor’s thunder, and then thrown asunder by the storm of his ire.  The winds blew them apart, and the floods came in their wake, covering all that was known and erasing the path back home.”

 

Again she clutched at her chest, eyes bright.  “And so it happened, in one act of a wrathful god’s anger, that all that the children knew was gone - they were cast away from their parents, and then blown away from their hearth like so many dandelion seeds, landing in places bare and unknown.  As they stood trembling in the cold of the new dawn, their eyes scanning the unfamiliar landscape, a new sensation took root and bloomed deep within their chest, growing bigger with each beat of their heart — a vast and all-consuming loss such as they had no words to describe.  Half of their soul was gone.”

 

She wiped a tired hand across her face, as though the telling sapped her of her strength.  “Such was Thor’s curse, and such was its result.  Having taken away what was most precious from them, he cursed them to walk the earth alone, their steps always ringing hollow without the sound of companion footsteps at their side, the cavity of their chest hollow with the loss of their other half.  Freya, their mother, wept to see her children so distraught, but could not undo what had been done.  Instead, she gave upon her offspring the only gift she could — that of hope.  With a breath of her kiss a soft breeze rustled through the trees across the earth, and brushed across the cheeks of her offspring, planting a simple gift within them.  Should they ever, in their lonely wanderings, come across their soulmate again, their hearts will know each other at once.  And what is once reunited, Freya bequeathed, shall never be torn asunder again, not by god or man.  And so the children roam the earth during their lives, searching for their other half.  Many tire during their wanderings and find comfort in someone else’s arms.  But there are a few,” she paused, eyes glittering, staring at Deirdre, “who come upon their true love again, and as soon as their eyes catch upon each other, it is as though they have never been separated.  Their hearts beat the same beat, and their breaths flow in and out as though from the same breast.  And they are truly blessed by Freya, for now they know — having lived such a loss once — what it means to hold their love within their arms again.”  With that, the storyteller hung her head, her knotted locks obscuring her face, and bowed deeply before turning in one swift motion and heading for the exit.

 

Cerball gripped his armrests, stricken. He felt as though he himself had just been buffeted by Thor’s storm, cleaved in half.  He glanced to his left, and could see Deirdre equally taken by the tale, a slim-fingered hand pressed against her lips, eyes moist as she stared unblinkingly at the retreating bard.  

 

It was more than the skill of a storyteller that plucked at his emotions, for he felt the pull of Grima's words viscerally, as though they were spoken to him directly — _for_ him and for his —- he looked to his left again, eyes caressing the blonde hair, the pale face and supple lips — beloved.  He felt the heavy, damp thump of his heart deep in his chest, felt the bloom of emotion and let himself name it — Love. For that is what he felt for Deirdre, and here, bare before them all, was the _why_.  Was it any wonder he would fall so deeply and so quickly in love with a lass he knew a mere handful of days if it wasn't the very essence of him recognizing what was lost to him for eons: his other half?  Cerball felt the enormity of what transpired engulf him, he embraced it.  He was a changed man.  He had found his soulmate.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been four days since he had laid his eyes upon his beloved, but the fervor of his feelings burned as strong within his chest as when he faced them first, the truth laid bare by the bard’s words.  He had not had a chance to speak to Deirdre, verify that she had been felled by the truth of their joining as he had, as she had made a rushed exit at the end of the bard's tale.

 

_She stood up suddenly after the bard had exited with a bow, her chair making a scraping sound against the floor.  Cerball wanted to reach out, steady her, but propriety forbade any physical contact between them before the wedding._

 

_She stood swaying in place for a moment, staring after the bard, until it was Father Finian who'd voiced his concern._

 

_"Is my Lady feeling well?"_

 

_She startled at that, looking up to see them all watching her, and stammered out an excuse.  “Forgive me, Sires, I have taken unwell.  I shall bid you all a good night.”_

 

_And so she appeared, the pallor of her skin evident, the shaking in her voice unmistakable.  Cerball yearned to reach out to her, to soothe the very ache he felt within his own breast, craving the reunion with his beloved, but she retreated hastily and so he remained and entertained his guests._

 

The next morning he had departed before the sun rose, leading his guests - Mael and Brennan, his son, Olaf and his helpmate, Grunner and a contingent of their squires - to a hunting expedition.  He had thought he’d caught a glimpse of golden hair in the courtyard as they departed, his heart tricking his eyes into seeing what wasn’t there, for what would have Deirdre been doing awake at that hour, let alone outside her chambers.  Now that he had returned, he burned with impatience to see her again, to look her in the eye and see his own love reflected within her gaze.

 

It was disappointment, then, that his stewardess served, along with his food, the news  that the Lady had decided to break her fast in her chambers.

 

He scowled, shrugging off with impatience the hand that reached across his chest with familiarity, slipping inside of his tunic.  “Enough, Breena.  I shall have no need of that any longer.”  He ignored the flash of hurt that settled upon her brow, waving her on for more ale.  “And what of your mistress, then, did she fare well over the past few days?”

 

Breena complied, sloshing more drink into his cup, her lips set into a thin line.  “She is no mistress of mine yet, Sire, and mayhap you should keep it that way.”

 

His hand closed about her wrist, stilling her movement, and he let his voice drop low, the warning tone unmistakable.  “Lady Deirdre will your mistress be in two days’ time, Breena, and you had best remember that, _and_ your place in this household.  You warmed my bed these few winters past, and for that reason I shall forgive you this insolence.”

 

She withdrew her arm, gingerly cradling her wrist, but there was a hardness in her face that Cerball recognized well - the anger of a woman spurned.

 

“As you wish, Sire.  It is upon your brow that she will hang the horns, not mine.”

 

His hand lashed across her cheek, the blow strong enough to throw her off balance, her hip catching on the dining table.  He stood above her, breath heavy with rage, but Breena stared back at him, fury mixing with fear in her eyes, hand cautiously fingering her cheek.

 

“You dare call me a cuckold, woman, and besmirch Lady Ruanaid’s name?  What kind of nonsense is this?”

 

“Ay, a cuckold, Sire, and a _fool_.  She has taken that savage Viking woman to bed in your absence - _aye_ \- and though you may not need fear another man’s seed taking root, she’ll make you a weakling of the Isle once this becomes known.”  She rose to her feet unsteadily, finger pointed.  “You may strike me dead with your fists, Cerball mac Faelain, but it won’t change the truth - your _lady_ rutting like a sow in heat under your own roof with a Viking slattern.”

 

Bile rose in his throat, quick and sour, and Cerball lunged at her, a roaring in his ears.  He had felt rage before, murderous, precise rage in the heat of a battle but this, the rancor that surged bitter in his chest at her words and at the vision they brought forth overwhelmed him.  His hands clasped around her throat and he pressed in, walking them both until the back of her head met the wall with a sickening thud.  

 

Afterward, nodding toward her crumpled form as he told the guardsman that his stewardess made an unfortunate tumble down the stairs, instructing him to arrange for her family, his throat felt raw, raw as the gashes her fingernails left on his forearms, but he remembered naught.  Naught, save the image, indelible against the back of his eyelids, of a blonde head thrown back in ecstasy, blue-inked snakes flexing between her thighs.

 

His hand rose, unbidden, and pressed tentatively, almost curiously, against his chest.  His heart thumped back against it, a hollow boom.

 

* * *

 

 

Now, at last, his eyes sweep across the great hall, the din of revelry rising anew among the assembled men, his again outnumbering those of Ruanaid and Olaf.  On this, the eve before he and Deirdre are to be wed, the mead flows freely, the men feasting on the boar and mutton procured during the hunt.  There is a jingly sense of tension in the air, the men louder at their tables, the servers jumpy and, to his eye, even the torches in the sconces along the wall seem to crackle audibly with it.

 

At his table his guests of honor feast as well, the choicest cuts of meat and the best sweet mead reserved for them. To his right Ruanaid, as is his habit, converses in quiet tones with his son, and to his left Olaf laughs boisterously at the food fight erupting among his men, neither paying heed to the clumsiness of their newly installed cupbearers sloshing drink over the brim of their cups with every refill.

 

At the other end of the table Deirdre picks distractedly at her plate, eyes scanning the room, while Father Finian, his attempts at conversation spurned, quietly snores in his seat.  Cerball lets his eyes linger on the curve of her cheek, the cherub bow of her lower lip and lets the emotion build within him, spread through his chest with each twitch of his heart.

 

Deirdre cuts her eyes toward him, bemusement momentarily clouding her features as though, he thinks, she can read his mind, and then she offers a hesitant smile. Cerball cants his head in acknowledgement, and stands, raising his cup.

 

The cupbearers at his back pound their feet to the floor, calling for attention. He can see curious eyes meet his from the tables in the hall, feels the same from his table companions.

 

"Allow me, guests, to raise my cup to Deirdre mac Ruanaid, my betrothed."

 

_He had built the guest quarters, their hollow wardrobes connected to a narrow passage leading to his own chamber, under a simple principle - knowledge is power.  And yet, his jaw tightening at every sound of pleasure that reaches his ears, Cerball mac Faelain wished he'd opted for ignorance._

 

_He could see just enough through the slats of the wardrobe to erase the last vestige of doubt from his mind.  The head thrown back in preclimactic bliss belonged to the Viking whore, and the one working diligently between her thighs, candlelight catching on its golden locks, was unmistakably Deirdre's._

 

 _He was surprised by how detached he felt, as though he were observing naught but a tawdry puppet play. And yet he remembered with startling clarity the only other time he felt such detachment_ — _in the moments after a Norseman's sword sliced into his thigh a decade ago, blade kissing bone, blood gushing out under his disbelieving eyes. Detachment lasted just long enough for him to bury his dirk into the Northerner's eye, and was quickly succeeded by an all encompassing, teeth-shattering agony. He braced himself._

 

"On this eve of our marriage, I want to say a toast to our distinguished guests, Mael mac Ruanaid, the High King of the Gaelic lands, and Olaf Sigmundson, our newest ally. Most of all," he tips his mug in Deirdre's direction, noting the sudden stilling of her features, "I wish to celebrate my bride to be, fair Lady Deirdre."

 

_The Viking hissed out her release, her snake-covered hands buried weakly into golden hair, tugging Deirdre up._

 

_"Was that... Did I please you?"  Deirdre's voice was low and husky with tenderness, a timbre unfamiliar to him, and the nausea rose swift in his gut, and strong. He braced himself against the wardrobe, swallowing compulsively._

 

_"Please me, Lady? Have you no ears?" The woman responded with a low chuckle, planting a soft kiss on the blonde head laid on her shoulder. "If you were to please me any more, I'd be unable to ride us out of here on the morrow."_

 

_His head snapped up, straining to hear. He could see a lazy arm — Deirdre's — rising to encircle the Viking woman's waist._

 

 _"In that case, this shall be the last kiss I bestow upon you tonight, for you need to be able in the morning, and swift,_ mo rúnsearc, _for my father’s men will be fast upon us_ _."_

 

 _The endearment, so easily loosened from her lips, made a final mockery of his feelings, and he bent his head, sickened.  The very words he had mouthed furtively to himself, in anticipation of saying them to Deirdre on their wedding eve —_ _my secret love, my beloved_ _—_ _instead bestowed by her on another — and whom?  His lips pulled back in a sneer, teeth bare — a heathen_ savage _, a woman._

 

 _A wave of shame and fury rolled through him  —  to have been so_ stupid _, bewitched by a maudlin tale of lovers by the very woman who then plucked, behind his back, what was rightfully his.  His hand gripped the pommel of his sword, palm moist over well-worn leather, the other reaching for the wardrobe door._

 

_"It is not your father we have to fear, heartling," the bard mused, "but Cerball and his men. We should get to Olaf's settlement afore they realize we are both gone, and gone together, but we won't be safe until a longship takes us to Duiblinn."_

 

_Cerball stilled, listening._

 

_"And a Viking longship next, to your northern lands? To your family?"  Grima noded, smiling. "And they will... accept me there? As yours?"_

 

 _"Aye, mitt hjärta, as mine."  The bard bestowed a soft kiss upon the blonde head. "They shall think I'd plucked a Valkyrie from the heavens and brought her home.”  Turning serious, she ducked her head to capture Deirdre’s gaze.  “You are my chosen, my_ soul’s mate _, Deirdre, and now that we have been reunited, as Freya bid it, not even Thor can tear us asunder again. They will celebrate us."_

 

_Cerball choked back a growl of anger, disbelieving.  Had she beguiled them all with her tale, the witch bard, muddled all of their judgement with some sorcery?  Was this Olaf’s doing, a she-witch brought into his home to sow ruin and poison their minds?_

 

_He saw as Deirdre ducked her head, nuzzling the bare skin of the woman sprawled out under her.  "Then we shall be swift, and swifter yet your Viking ships. Though you are wrong — it is my father we must fear. The Fox of Osraighe won’t care for my departure save it twinges his pride — I am naught to him but a pawn in a game he and Ruanaid play.”  She paused, leaving a trail of feathery kisses upon exposed skin, then shook her head dismissively.  “If aught, he shall be relieved, upon discovering our trickery, not to have our marriage delay his takeover of Ruanaid’s crown.”_

 

_Cerball swallowed thickly, closing his eyes.  Aught to him but a pawn, she thought.  How could he have been so mistaken?_

 

 _Grima’s voice was low but forceful.  “Ruanaid may have made you wise with knowledge of kingly machinations and alliance-making, taught you to lead with your head, but I know matters of the heart, Deirdre, and I’ll say you this — I have seen how Cerball mac Faelain holds you within his regard and he_ will _come after you.”  She paused waiting for the blonde to meet her eye.  “He has to, for you have possession of his heart.”_

 

_Deirdre frowned, displeasure clouding her features.  “Then make sure your Viking ships are as swift as you boast, Grima.  I no longer wish to speak of Cerball, nor my father — have you no other things you wish to do with those lips?”_

 

_It is then he took his leave, his steps along the secret corridor hastened by renewed sounds of lovemaking._

 

Cerball raises his cup to Deirdre, meeting her eye.  The smile he bestows upon her stretches his face into a macabre mask of joviality, causing her own lips to twitch in an uncertain response.

 

"On my future queen I would have bestowed all that is dearest to me _—_ my lands, my crown and all my worldly possessions. She would have ruled by my side and," his gaze hardens, smile dropping from his lips, "I would have called her _mo rúnsearc_."

 

He can see a sudden pallor wash across Deirdre's face at his words, and he waves his hand toward the front of the room, signaling.  The doors to the great hall open with a clang, two of his men ushering a bound, gagged Grima between them.  

 

Ruanaid and Brennan murmur in confusion to his right, Olaf leans forward in his seat with an exclamation but he only has eyes for Deirdre who, ashen, stands from her seat unsteadily, eyes fixed on the bard.

 

His men stand before them, Grima propped up between, and Cerball continues, unabated.  "As is, all I can offer her on this eve afore we are to be wed, is the one thing I am sure will... please my Lady.”

 

“Thor’s balls, Cerball, what are _—_ ” He cuts Olaf off with a wave of his hand, willing Deirdre to meet his gaze.  She stares straight ahead, eyes locked with that of the Viking woman.  The Viking stands unbowed between her captors, eyes shimmering with unshed tears and yet, gazing at Deirdre, there is no fear within them.

 

He bares his teeth at the display, rage quick and hot upon him.  “I know that my Lady was well appreciative of this witch’s tongue and, aye, returned the favor willingly so, here, let me gift it to you for posterity!”  At his nod the men grasp Grima, one with knife in hand, tearing off the gag from her mouth, the other holding fast at her bound arms.

 

_This is the tale of a love from olden times, when pagan gods still meddled in affairs of man.  It is a tale of lovers cleaved in two by a wrathful god, who unbound soul from soul and cast them apart and yet, ages later, they chanced upon each other anew, in an unlikely coupling — a Gaelic princess and a Viking bard.  On the eve of their reunion, the wrath of a man spurned wished to undo what the goddess of love herself said, once rejoined, would never again be undone — and so it came to be that..._

 

_...Deirdre launched herself toward Grima with a cry, Olaf at her heels, while Ruanaid and his son, shaken from their impassivity, rose to their feet in alarm.  Undeterred, Cerball bellowed the order — To arms! — and his men, prepared for what was to come, rose as one, swords in hands.  The guests, on Ruanaid and Olaf’s side, addled by mead and slowed by confusion rose as well, only to be assailed by their hosts._

 

_Cerball mac Faelain signaled to the cupbearers, each now brandishing a crossbow and they obeyed as one in deadly synchronicity — two felled Ruanaid and his son with single shots, one fired at Olaf, his arrow only grazing the Viking’s shoulder, the two remaining trained their weapons upon the bard, held still by her captives, and let loose their arrows._

 

_Deirdre and Olaf, his sword unsheathed, converged upon Grima as the arrows found their mark, one upon another burying deep into the bard's breast.  With a cry she fell upon her knees and with a cry did Deirdre crumple to the floor along with her love, and, as though ruffled by a strong gust of wind, even the torches upon the walls faltered, the light growing dim momentarily._

 

_Olaf, grim faced, fell upon the men before him, his broadsword driving them back, offering a breath of respite to Grima and her beloved._

 

_And so it was that Cerball stalked toward them, a dull-gleaming blade in his hand.  All around them pandemonium reigned, men dead and dying littered the floor of the great hall, clash of steel on steel deafening.  Below the din a low wail rose, spurring the fighting on, men growing berserk with rage, lashing out at each other with increasing fury.  For such was the grief of Deirdre, and so terrible the sound of her keening over her dying love, that those living could not bear to hear it without going half mad themselves._

 

_Above her stood Cerball, unmoved, watching Grima’s breath shorten, chest rising more slowly under Deirdre’s reddened hands.  Stone-faced, he pulled Deirdre up, forcing her face up, dagger at her heart._

 

 _“This is what you’ve sown, my Lady.  To lie like a common whore with a godless_ savage _, when I could have given you a kingdom!”  He stared at her, her face impassive, then continued, voice breaking.  “I could have given you my love,_ _mo rúnsearc.”_

 

 _Deirdre laughed hollowly.  “Your_ kingdom, _old man?  You have already given me the one thing I need, and for four nights, in her arms, I was the happiest woman under the stars.  Now that you have taken her away from me again, there is only one thing left which you can gift me.”  Her hands encircled his, pressing the dagger in.  “I will never be yours, Cerball mac Faein, in this life or the next.”_

 

_Cerball leaned in, cheek pressing against hers, as his dagger pierced her heart.  Deirdre met it with a sigh, sagging in his arms, and, as though touched by her dying breath, the torches along the walls flickered out one by one, plunging the great hall into darkness._

 

_Cerball felt her slide out of his grasp, landing softly at his feet, but afore he could react he felt a hot breath at his ear and a norseman’s blade in his gut.  Disengaging, Olaf spat upon him, letting him crumple to the floor.  “A mad dog you were, Cerball, and a mad dog you will die.”_

 

_And so it is this story ends — soul’s mates, who, once reunited, were promised eternal peace, torn asunder again by the covetousness of man.  It is said Freya wept bitter tears upon their fate, and cursed anew the earth’s children: each day that passed without the fated lovers reunited would bring famine and destruction upon the very earth they walk, looking for each other.  Beware, my lords and ladies, that you stand not betwixt those destined for true love, for you curse us all._

 

The din of battle fades in and out, now loud and piercing in his ears, now sounding dull and far away, and Cerball lolls his head to the side.  It is then he sees them, crumpled next each other, Deirdre and Grima.  His eyes flutter closed, noises receding, and he wills them open again, tries to focus.  He is cold, feels heavy with it, heavier with each shallow breath, and scared.  Something dark yawns just beyond his sight, comes for him alone.  Alone.

 

There is a movement in his peripheral vision and his eyes shift, seeking _—_ there.  It is slight, barely visible _—_ a minute brush of finger against palm, Deirdre and Grima.  He stares now, transfixed, and there it is again _—_ fingers entwining, a final caress.  He waits, a beat, two, eyes growing heavy, the cold seeping in.  Nothing more, then.  

 

He closes his eyes and there, at the very precipice of not being, in that last moment he feels, with stunning intensity, the enormity of what he has done.  And then he falls.

 

* * *

 

 

He staggers, right leg buckling under the bite of a phantom Viking blade, his knee hitting the floor of the elevator with jarring force.  He can still feel the void rushing at, _inside_ of him, the icy gasp of his last breath, and Leekie shakes his head side to side, desperate to dispel the lingering grasp of his memory.  His breath comes in short heaves, and he can barely hear the boom of his heart over the rushing in his ears.  He is sure he will faint.

 

It is happening again, and he feels the rush of silverquick rage pierce him, the sensation as fresh as the first time he felt it, centuries ago.  He straightens, hands fisted at his sides.  They have played him for a fool again, always a step ahead.  All these years, all the lives, always the fool.  He sways, feeling a sudden weariness set in.  It has gone on too long, this dance they are caught in, and he is no closer to finding peace.  He braces his arms against the wall of the elevator, sapped, palms slick with sweat.  So tired.  So, so tired of the machinations and disappointments and death.  Always death.

 

But this time, this time they are so close.  He can smell the scent of Delphine’s perfume in the elevator car, a scent unchanged through the ages.  It still makes his pulse quicken as the first time.  He can still find them.

 

He bolts out, narrowly avoiding collision with the security guard.

 

“Mr. Leekie, are you alright, sir?”

 

He pauses, knowing he must look a sight, but there is no time.  “Get Marion.  She needs to find them-- find Delphine.  Tell her to find Delphine!”

 

Then he is running, back up the stairs, up to the first floor.  If not there, he will run to the second, then the third-- this time, he will find them.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

by [otp324B21](http://archiveofourown.org/users/otp324B21/pseuds/otp324B21)

Another vision...another scar. As the flash of light began to fade it was replaced with a pain blooming from the center of her chest and Delphine knew without having to look down. She could feel the scar in every millimeter of flesh the dagger had pressed through, breaking through skin and bone, through the muscles of her heart. But that wasn't the heart she was concerned with. Instead her heart laid on the ground beside her not moving.

Not moving.

"Cosima!" The sound of her own voice was a comfort she couldn't quite appreciate as she reached for the woman that had somehow fallen from her grasp sometime between a millennium ago and that moment. The color of her cheeks had faded a few shades and her chest was unnervingly still. "Cosima!"

Dark hazel eyes shot open, a gasp for air echoing off the walls of the elevator...time machine...tomb of destiny. Whatever it was. Cosima's breaths came stunted and a look of panic overcame her features as she struggled for air. Her hands came up, clawing at her chest, an obvious look of pain in her face.

"Just breathe!" Delphine was in a panic. She didn't know what to do. "It will pass, just like the others. Just breath, mo rúnsearc." The words fell from her lips unintentionally, so foreign on her tongue yet so familiar. Was she losing who she was, or was she finally just remembering?

Cosima was scrambling, her hands clenching in the woman's jacket.

 _"Just breathe, Delphine!"_  The tiny voice reverberated through Delphine's mind and she pushed the childhood memory aside, focusing on the present. "Just listen to my voice, Cosima. Breathe in..." She commanded, demonstrating with her own deep breath and glad when the brunette listened, taking a stuttering breath. "Good good, now hold it in for just a few seconds...now exhale." She demonstrated by releasing a long breath. "Now again..."

Her body beginning to relax and calm down, Cosima took a long deep breath, holding it for a second before releasing it slowly.

Delphine noticed her own hands were shaking as she raised one, reaching out to caress a soft cheek, her thumb tracing a trembling lip. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah." Cosima laughed it off, her hand waving through the air dismissively. "Sorry, I just had a little trouble disassociating is all. Is it just me or are those vision things getting more and more real?" She shifted uncomfortably, her hands reaching up to the neckline of her dress. She'd gone past feeling modest and was pulling the material down to reveal two faded knots in her skin, one on each side of her chest going through the top slope of each breast. "Well... there go my bikini days." She laughed, an attempt to diffuse the situation.

The words held no meaning to Delphine as a sparkle caught her gaze. Her eyes fell upon the necklace settled against the tan skin, resting just above the valley of the woman's breasts. The pendant was small, but intricate, a round jewel in a shade of deep blue circled by a silver serpent. She'd seen the representation so many times before, the snake swallowing its tail, an ancient symbol of eternity and inevitability, but there was something about it. It was familiar, not in the way one felt something was familiar because you'd seen it in a text book right before a test, but in the way one felt when finding a photo of a moment long passed. She reached out and took the pendant in her hand.

"What are you..."

Delphine's brow furrowed, not hearing the brunette's questioning protest. It was familiar in the way Cosima was familiar.

In the way Grima was familiar.

_"What is this?" Her hands traced the edge of the item nestled between glistening breasts, the cord in which it hung from damp with sweat. She leaned forward to brush her lips against the curves of her new lover, her tongue emerging to lick a bead of sweat from the tattooed flesh. There was an incessant need within her to explore every inch of the canvas before her. The woman had allowed her to shed every inch of clothing and adornments, yet she had insisted the talisman remain, the piece obviously having a deep significance._

_Grima ran her fingertips through damp blonde hair, revealing the long neck she longed to sink her teeth into but knowing that leaving a mark would mean death for them both. No, she could wait a few days for the pleasure, when she would be able to claim the body as her own without fear of repercussions. "It is the crest of my clan. Jörmungandr, son of Loki. See how he holds his own tail in his mouth, it is to keep the world together, in one piece." Her hands slipped down the pale skin as her lips brushed gentle kisses down the length of the neck she longed for. "It is said that he and the lord Thor are mortal enemies and that a battle between them will bring the end of the world." As she was consumed with her need to claim the woman in the only way she was allowed, she grabbed the slim form, turning them over so that she was pinning her to the bed._

_Deirdre smiled, soft yet firm hands pinning her arms on either side of her as lips caressed her shoulder and neck. "Why do you wear it?" Her words were but a whisper, her ability to speak hindered by the merciless lips coursing down her body. "Do you wish for the end of the world?" She bit her bottom lip, reveling in the sensation of being surrounded by love. "Do you wish an end to these nights of ours?"_

_Grima chuckled against pale skin, looking up into her eyes. "Never, but it has been foretold that during the great battle Ragnarök, there will be a final battle between he and Thor." She captured a nipple between her lips, slipping a thigh between the blonde's. "In that battle, a strike from Thor's hammer will cause Jörmungandr to release his tail and fall into the heavens, raining poison upon the lands. It is on that day in which Thor's hammer brings the great serpent to his end, so would his own life be forfeit, his body unable to withstand the poisonous venom." With a growl, she rocked her hips against the thigh pressed against her core, her own thigh pressing firmly against damp curls and being rewarded with a soft gasp. "On that day, we who have been blessed by Freya's kiss shall be avenged." She met trembling lips in a searing kiss as fingers moved south to claim everything the woman had to offer. "Thor shall suffer for tearing us apart." She whispered as the body arched up into her._

Delphine dropped the pendant, her fingers seared by memories that were hers yet not. It wasn't a vision, but a memory, so real she could still taste the salt on her tongue. "Where...where did you get that?"

Looking down, Cosima's features were colored with confusion. Her own memories resurfaced, her mind filled with warm flesh and barely muffled moans. "I don't...what the fuck." Her hand came up to touch the necklace. "How can..." It was just a necklace. She'd owned it for years. She'd purchased in by happenstance back in San Francisco before she even started college. How could it possibly be in their last vision?

_The market was dense as always, one of the last allowed in the bay city. The smell of sweat filled the air, accompanied by the overzealous sellers, trying to get her attention. She'd lost track of Felix almost 30 minutes ago and she didn't doubt that he'd found some sort of trouble to get into. Her back was aching from the pack already loaded with fruit, the freshest she'd seen in two...maybe three years, the droughts having destroyed more crops than were successful. She checked her phone, seeing no responses to the messages she'd sent and the sun was getting to the unbearable point._

_"Girl!" An old woman set up under a tent called to her, beckoning her forward._

_Normally, Cosima stayed away from those booths. While she was always looking for more jewelry to add to her collection, the market sellers tended towards cheap replications of actual metals and gems. Blocking the light of the sun, Cosima shrugged. If anything she would at least be in the shade, even if she had to pretend to be interested in what looked like just your everyday costume jewelry._

_"You pretty girl." The woman spoke in an accent of the mixed Asian languages that perpetuated through the ghettos. "Come. Pretty gem for pretty girl." She lifted up a necklace from the table. It was gold...too gold, and held a gem that looked a lot like polished glass. "Real gem."_

_Cosima snorted, looking over the wares. "No thanks. Those gems aren't my style." She wasn't one to start an argument in the middle of the market, especially with the guards patrolling the crowd, just begging for a reason to shut the entire thing down. Nothing really caught her eyes, small trinkets really, but the tent had to be about ten degrees cooler than being out in the open, so she touched each piece, trying to look interested._

_"Here here. Perfect." The woman lifted what looked like an old hook, carved in white. "Real bone."_

_With a hidden cringe, Cosima shook her head. She continued her browsing but she could tell the old woman was getting irritated by her constant refusals. Just a few more minutes and she'd go find Felix._

_"You dropped this." A voice, soft and small came from beside her._

_Cosima was surprised to see a young girl, her hair brown and pulled away from her face, no older than seven or eight. She held out a necklace, a blue gem circled by a silver snake and on instinct, Cosima grabbed it, focusing on the gem, getting lost in the depth of it. It didn't look like glass, nor did it resemble any of the other pieces. "Thanks, but..." The words died on her lips as she looked up, finding the space empty, no one else in the tent besides the old woman who was digging into her case for another piece. "Ok...weird." She looked out the tent, not finding any sign of the girl._

_"I find perfect." The old woman spoke up again, lifting another necklace. "Real pearl."_

_Nearly laughing at what was nothing but a polished bead, Cosima shook her head. Going with the gut instinct, she lifted the necklace. "How much for this one?"_

_The old woman squinted as she looked at the necklace, confusion coloring her face before quickly being replaced by a serious expression. "$50. Real...blue diamond!"_

_Raising her eyebrow, Cosima shook her head again. "You're nuts, lady. This is just costume jewelry. I'll give you ten bucks for it."_

_"Is not costume! Is real!" The woman gave her a dirty look. "Fine, $30."_

_Digging into her wallet, Cosima held out cash. "$15. Take it or leave it."_

_The woman reached out and snatched the cash from her. "Fine. Now leave. Bad for business."_

_With a satisfied smile, Cosima stepped back into the sun, tucking the piece into her pocket as her ears were assaulted once more by the sound of people bartering, and the faint sound of a child's laugh._

"Holy fuck." Cosima sat up, backing away from the blonde. Just when she thought she was finally in control of a situation, it was ripped from her and torn asunder. She had thought that if they tried hard enough, if they put all they were into remembering themselves, they would be fine, but now this? "What the fuck?" She stood up and began to pace, feeling the odd tension from her one leg putting a limp in each step. "I have to be going fucking crazy. I have to be. There's no fucking way this is happening." Past lives were one thing, but now there was a physical item...an actual physical item that she'd had for years...that she hadn't worn in years.

But that morning as she had been getting dressed, something in her had told her that was the necklace she was supposed to wear that day. Her hand had moved over the dresser-top full of bracelets, rings, and necklaces and had hovered over that one piece of jewelry she'd purchased back in San Francisco. Why?

Delphine watched as the woman paced, trapped in her own confusion. There had to be a rational explanation. Delphine tried to think over everything. The visions. The necklace. The scars. It all had to mean something. This was beyond DYAD, beyond anything she'd ever experienced before. "Cosima sit down, you're making my head spin."

"No!" Cosima continued to pace, her heart racing out of control with each step. "Fuck this. Fuck DYAD. Fuck all of this."

There had to be a reason for all of this. However Cosima had come across the necklace, it was there in the elevator with them. They were in the elevator together. Somehow they had lived these past lives together and somehow they were remembering it. It involved the both of them, that was for sure. "We're missing something."

Cosima threw her hands in the air. "We're missing everything!" One hand came to her forehead as she struggled to think. "Ok...calm down, Cosima. You're not helping anything." She spoke to herself, taking a deep breath, feeling the ghost of a tug against the scars on her chest, reminding her of one fact. "We always die."

Delphine looked up at the woman in confusion. "What?"

"That has to be significant. Why didn't I see it before?" Cosima's hands came up again as she began to explain. "In like every one of these visions. It's not like a slow death and pining like we'll never see each other. It's always like a brutal death. Holy Davy Crockett!" She exclaimed, dropping to the ground next to Delphine, grimacing at the phantom pain in her leg. "Let's look at this from another angle. You and I are always separated in each life, right?"

"Yes." Delphine nodded.

"Most of the time it's by death. Why?"

Delphine could see in the woman's eyes that she already had a puzzle piece and was trying to help her get to it. "Because we love each other?"

"No!" Cosima grinned. "That plays a part in why we die, but it's not just that. If you think back on all the lives we've been shown, we've been thinking there's this unseen force keeping us apart, but what if it's not a force at all." Cosima was certain of it. "What if it's a person?"

Delphine's face twisted in confusion. If it was a person, then who?

"Delphine." Cosima moved closer, her hand reaching out to caress a soft cheek, a move she'd done so many times over so many lives. "In almost every single lifetime, we've been killed. Think. Why?"

_She was pinned to the floor, her katana laying where he had tossed the weapon out of her reach, the cold wood pressing into her back as the larger form settled over her. A rustle of fabric as he revealed his nakedness, his less than gentle fingers moving aside the layers of her practice attire, his hands prying her legs apart._

_"Do not forget who allows you to train with a blade. You are nothing but a woman, and you belong to me." His voice was cold as he thrust into her without warning. He pressed his weight into her, burying his face in her neck, biting her mercilessly as he began to pump in and out of her. "You are mine."_

_She closed her eyes, willing her body to react in ways that pleased him, rocking her hips against his movements, squeezing her pelvic muscles in hopes to hurry this along. With her eyes closed, she could almost remember the feeling of soft fingers, tentatively pressing into her, his grunts of passion melding into soft whispers of love. She could hear the high pitched whimpers of her lover and as she wrapped her arms around a form that was too large to match her memories, she cried, longing for the scent of falling cherry blossoms._

"It's my fault." Delphine realized, each past life coming to her, crashing around her in a sea of broken memories. "Every time it is my fault." Tears began to well in her eyes and she tried to pull away from the brunette, but the woman wouldn't let her.

"It's not your fault, Delphine." Cosima shook her head. "We're both in this for a reason. Even now. I can feel it here." She pressed her hand against her own chest. "I can't stop myself from loving you anymore than you can stop yourself from loving me, no matter what life we're in."

Delphine shook her own head. She understood everything now. "No. It is always my fault." She could feel her chest begin to tighten. "We die because it's my fault."

"No, Delphine. Don't you see what I'm trying to tell you? It's him? The Marquis. The Shogun. Cerbal." Cosima laughed at the simplicity of it. "Maybe this is some kind of cosmic puzzle that's pointing us to the one thing we have to avoid, in order to be happy."

The words did little to calm the blonde as she was swallowed by memories, the reality of the situation consuming her completely.

_"You're here late." The door clicked shut and leather soles approached Delphine from behind._

_"Sorry, I just want to log these results before finishing up." She slipped the slides back into their place, clearing the area with the disinfectant before stripping off her gloves and goggles with a smile. "I'm just about..." As she turned she was shocked to find her lips captured in a kiss, hands circling her waist, pulling her closer, pulling the hem of her skirt up. With a small laugh, she pushed him back. "Aldous...I told you before. We cannot do this at work."_

_He captured her wrist as she turned to step away, stopping her. "If I recall correctly...I run this entire building." He stepped up behind her, slipping the lab coat off her shoulders and tossing it to the side._

_Delphine felt him push her roughly forward and got a hand out just in-time to catch the edge of the table, stopping herself from landing on top of it. Looking down she watched as hands pushed the edge of her skirt up. "Aldous..." She spoke in a warning tone._

_"You know what would be horrible? If for some reason the funding of your research disappeared."_

_A wave of anger came over Delphine as she turned to face him, catching him in the act of unbuttoning his slacks. "I may work for you, Aldous, but do not presume that you can control me." Knowing that she was tip-toeing the line she did her best to avoid, she reached down to undo the zipper, the slacks sliding to the floor and leaving him in his boxers. Leaning forward to brush her lips against his, she pushed the boxers down over his hips and moved onto the cold metal table._

_Aldous smirked as she raised her hips, allowing him to remove her panties. "And yet..." He pulled her roughly to the edge of the table, spreading her thighs apart. "...here we are."_

_Delphine ignored him, reaching down to guide him into her. She loved him. Even when he was being intentionally cruel to get his way, she knew that he loved her as well._

_"Don't forget who...allows you to continue your research." He growled maliciously, his thrusts become uncoordinated as he obviously had a point to prove. "As long as you work here...I own you." He slammed into her, leaving scratches in the sensitive skin of her upper thighs. "I own you." He thrust hard against her, his motions quick and out of control. Almost as soon as it began, his body went rigid with a final thrust. His body shook as he bit down onto her shoulder, his release spilling into her._

_'He just needs to feel in control.' She told herself as she pulled him tight against her, rocking her hips just slightly as her hands held his head against her neck. 'He doesn't mean that.'_

_"You're mine." He whispered, this time the tone of his voice was one of admiration and disbelief as he pulled back._

_Delphine closed her eyes, nodding. "Of course I am."_

The reality of the situation hit her like a ton of bricks. Her heart was beating a thousand beats per minute and all she could hear was each pump of the scarred organ, the pounding echoes reverberating through her skull and muffling every other sound.

She could hear Cosima, but at the same time she couldn't.

"Kite...girl...necklace...hopscotch." Cosima was excited about it, her hand having moved from Delphine's face as she spoke. Delphine was hearing every two or three words, possibly less, she couldn't tell. The brunette's lips were moving in slow motion as she felt the tightening in her chest increase, cutting off her airways.

With a triumphant cheer, Cosima pulled Delphine forward for a quick kiss, her heart feeling a million pounds lighter now that she'd solved the riddle. "So I'm guessing that all we have to do is avoid this dude...whoever he is in this lifetime." But as she pulled away, she noticed the pale look on Delphine's face and her suddenly ragged breathing. "Hey...Delphine..."

Delphine pulled away, unable to breathe. It was him. She was fighting to bring air into her lungs as memories crashed over her.

_Cerbal was pressing a blade into her chest, the fury in his eyes._

_Her master was stripping her kimono off, taking her on the floor once again._

"Delphine!"

_The Marquis tore at her dress, holding her down as he cursed her love, thrusting into her despite her cries._

_The sun shined bright and he was standing there, whip in hand, her body burning from the freshly drawn line of blood across her back._

_He was smiling down at her in his office, his hands tangled in her blonde hair as he pulled her mouth towards his arousal._

She could hear present-day Cosima yelling her name, screaming for her to breathe, but she couldn't. Everything was futile. They were trying to find a way out of this, to solve the puzzle that fate, or destiny, or whatever it was that was, was trying to show them, but it was too late. He'd already found her, and she had willingly given herself to him. In doing so, she'd already destined them to die.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We here at OBFrankenfics are dreadfully sorry for the much-too-long delay between the last chapter and this one. There is no good excuse, but life happened and lack of motivation from the Cophine trainwreck of season 3 was certainly a factor. Anyway, enjoy.

 by tumblweed

 

 

_Aldous._

_It’s Aldous_ , she thought, clutching her neck. Her every worry for their star-crossed fate spun faster and faster, an ominous cyclone forming above their heads and sucking out the remaining elevator oxygen. The apex of the tornado danced right above her clavicle, touching down on her swelling windpipe.

They were going to die. Again.

She'd doomed them already.

Cosima hovered above her, close but offering ample space for Delphine to breathe, rubbing soothing lines down her spine. "Nice and slow, Delphine," she said, her voice suddenly soft and low. "Breathe, just breathe."

As soon as she heard the words, an unmistakable warmth flooded in, soothing the tightness in her chest, loosening her too-high breaths. And when she looked up, she knew Cosima could feel it too _—_  not the memory of a past life. No, this was something new entirely.

The brunette's eyes softened when they met hazel, the recognition drooping the sharp flick of her eyeliner, her lips parting slightly with the slacking of her jaw. “We’ve done this before,” Cosima whispered,! eyes wide and stinging at the corners.  
 

* * *

 

_"Allons-y, Delphine," her maman called, shuffling past her and into the crowd, golden clutch between bright red fingernails. "Don't let go of my skirt. There are so many people - I fear if I lose you, I may never find you again," she laughed, exasperated, annoyed, and Delphine tugged at the silky fabric bunched in her hand. She looked up at the back of her maman's head as they wove through the crowd. Perfectly manicured blonde curls (identical to her own) barely rustled in their forward motion. Perhaps it was the hairspray, or maybe the undeniable poise of her strut, but she'd hardly ever seen her maman outside of perfect dress and perfect, unmoving hair. Delphine's legs carried her in longer strides than she preferred, matching her maman's much taller frame step-for-step, her polished white sandals tripping over uneven cracks in the cobblestone street. With the top of her head aligned with her mother's ribs, trailing behind with a fistful of clothing was often the way that they traveled around Paris._

_Today, however, it was especially important that they not be separated. All through the streets, a large Parisian festival boomed with fireworks and chatter, a four day event that drew tourists from all over the globe. Generally a happy attitude and spirit of celebration accompanied the food and games and rides. However, this year attracted members of a new uprising, something Delphine knew little about other than its position as an ominous inherent threat to the well being of Paris and the rest of the world. Her parents took great care to never discuss it in front of her — perhaps to shield her, or because they assumed she could not understand — but_ she knew _. She'd snuck newspapers into her room and read them at night when the chances of being caught were slim._

_Now, riots intermingled with the festivities, and gatherings of protesters were at times indistinguishable from families enjoying the celebrations. Officers paced along the sidewalks, scowling and scanning the crowds, festival-goers moving from their path, avoiding them like sharks in a school of wary fish._

_Her tiny hand ached from clenching the bottom hem, her senses heightened and nervous, her shoulders bouncing off of random bodies as she attempted to trail directly behind. She grew so focused on holding tight that when a shop window to her right crashed under the weight of a hurling brick, she startled with a sudden jump and twist. She watched the crowd of protesters rush into the broken window, pouring over the jagged shards like a waterfall. Officers ran towards the commotion, yelling into black boxes on their shoulders, pulling rioters off the top and flicking out their batons._

_She watched as a hydrant was twisted free and water blasted over the crowd, and the mass of bodies clambered to breach the shop's entrance. She felt the misting spray on her neck, on the side of her face. She heard the crowd's rumble rise up, a woman screaming and a man's voice booming over a megaphone. Her rapidly increasing breaths climbed up, higher and higher in her chest. Within moments they were stuck in her throat, which seemed to be collapsing in on itself._

_And when she looked down, her hands were empty._

_"If I lose you, I may never find you again," she heard, echoing over and over._

_Her fingernails clawed at her throat, attempting to open her trachea through layers of skin and muscle and tendons. She didn't feel the pain of the scratches, didn't notice the heavy swarm of people pushing her tiny frame back and forth frantically. She knew only that her vision was drawing in at the sides, the rumble growing softer and muted, as though she was under water._

_And then, a grip on her arm._

_"Hey, are you okay?" she heard a young girl’s voice cutting through the din, speaking to her in English, a language she'd only just begun to learn in school. She tried to place the words, unable to understand them in her state, but there was a warmth to the tone that conveyed the message perfectly. "Come on," the voice said, and she felt a gentle pull at her arm, the other girl guiding her to the side of the street into an empty alcove._

_Delphine collapsed onto her knees, heaving and gasping for air, scratching and clutching at her neck. She couldn't look up, couldn't see the face of her savior, but the girl dropped down as well, positioned herself cross-legged on the concrete next to her. The girl's hands rubbed at her back, a warmth and kindness she'd never known. At least not without the kindness requiring something in return._

_"What's your name? Umm, I mean, quel est...? Ahh. I forget."_

_But Delphine knew._

_She looked up on instinct, the girl's worried eyes shining, hid behind wiry glasses and framed with short, wavy hair. "Del-" she gasped, then shook her head. She couldn't continue._

_"Del? That's your name?" The girl paused for a moment, waiting on an answer, but she couldn't. Her lungs wouldn't cooperate. "Breathe, Del. It will be okay," she spoke slowly. "Just breathe._

 

* * *

 

"Do you remember?" Cosima asked, hand rubbing the tightness from Delphine's chest, just as it had all those years ago. The other hand grazed Delphine's jaw, thumb tracing the bottom line of her mouth. And her throat loosened, just as it had as a child. Though still labored, her breath evened out.

"It was you," Delphine gasped, nodding. "Of all the people in all the world, it was _you_ , thousands of miles from here."

"I can't believe this," Cosima laughed, almost annoyed at the near constant state of shock she'd been drowning in for the past few hours. "Actually, you know what? _I can_. I've felt myself die several times today via past lives, so _this_ _—_  this might actually be the most believable part."

"I think you are right," Delphine replied, slipping her hand from her own throat and cupping the back of Cosima's neck, offering a light squeeze. "I always remembered that day, all my life. I always wondered who you were and where you went. The kindness of a stranger _—_  of anyone, really _—_  was completely foreign. I couldn't stop wishing I'd thanked you."

"You can thank me now," she grinned, the space between them more relaxed since Delphine's breath had mostly returned to normal.

Her lips curled slightly at the corner, their eyes searching each other's faces, noses moving closer until they bumped and offered a gentle nuzzle. She smiled into the kiss, an expression mirrored in Cosima's face when their lips touched. "Merci," she said, pulling away only far enough to speak, her eyes still shut.

"You're welcome," Cosima replied, moving to stroke at the side of her face, brush a few loose hairs from her forehead. "But I'm not sure how much credit I can take. I mean, I remember it feeling, like, _magnetic_. I couldn't stop myself."

"The red string," Delphine replied. And for a brief flicker of a moment, Cosima's face shifted _—_  her eyes suddenly free from glasses and winged liner, irises transformed into a darker shade of brown and almond in shape. Her dreads flickered into long strands of silken black hair hanging loose around her abruptly more angular face. "An invisible tie linking lovers throughout time or location or circumstance," she recited, staring in wonder. The soft clothing that covered Cosima's shoulder transfigured into cold samurai armor beneath Delphine's palm. It was impossible, but she could feel the rough edges of the metal on her fingertips.

And then, Cosima's face shifted back as quickly as it had changed _—_  like a holographic glitch. Warm cloth replaced unforgiving metal, but her eyes never wavered in their familiarity. "The string may stretch or tangle, but it will never break," Cosima said.

"決して," Delphine replied, her lips moving in a way that felt distantly familiar. "Never," she whispered again.

 

* * *

 

_In one hand, Cosima spun a pastry between her pinched fingers, biting off the sweet corners and chewing before moving on to the next bite. She walked between her parents, mom holding a camera against her chest, ever ready to capture a candid moment. A bright red fanny pack was strapped tight against the front of the taller woman's waist and swayed with each step across the crowded festival area. Her dad's hand rested on her shoulder keeping her close as they moved throughout the crowd, protective of his blissfully unaware daughter._

_Her parents both seemed so fascinated, so invested in things like Parisian architecture and famous works of art  —  subjects she considered the most boring parts of any vacation. She was much more interested in the people and the fast French spoken all around her. Yes  — people and rides and, at the moment, a delicious pastry she wished she'd eaten more slowly. Barely a bite was left between her fingers by the time they reached the other side of the festival._

_She popped the last piece into her mouth and took a moment to look around as her parents discussed their next destination. Bathroom break? Stand in line for the Ferris wheel? They always took so long to negotiate. She sighed._

_To her left, Cosima watched a small group of people grow in quiet agitation. Many of them wore thin red bandanas tied around their wrists. Restless and swarming, they emitted a different energy from the rest of the festival. One man with his hair drawn back into a ponytail squatted next to a trash bin, uncovering and lifting a broken brick from the sidewalk. Cosima's stomach twisted as his arm wound up and shot the massive rock straight through a storefront window. She watched the crowd surge forward, tumbling and rolling over itself to push inside the building._

_The crowd surrounding the scene began to buzz, people moving faster than before, some even breaking into a swift run to escape the growing mass of rioters._

_And in the midst of the chaos, only one point remained constant. A girl not much older than herself stood unmoving, face twisted in panic and shock, mouth opening and shutting like a fish fallen into dry sand. Her dress was white and laced with tiny pink flowers, a pristine ribbon circling her waist and bowed elegantly in the back. The ringlet curls of her hair stopped between her shoulderblades. Cosima wiped her sticky pastry hand on her Star Wars t-shirt and leaned forward._

_An impulse to run to her, to save this girl from the thundering crowd, set Cosima's feet into a forward motion. She slipped between tall rushing bodies, everyone bigger and older than herself, knocking her back and forth while her eyes stayed transfixed._

_The roar of voices grew quieter and quieter until her head was full of faint static. One arm stretched out to get the girl's attention, mere feet away, and the static grew louder. But from behind her, a coldness slipped into the hand hanging limply at her side and tugged her back firmly._

_Cosima whipped her head around, the static gone and surrounding volume increased with yells and chants from rioters. The girl who looked back at her, hand gripping around Cosima's knuckles, had dark eyes that stared without blinking or flinching at the sounds of police batons meeting skin. Her hair was parted down the middle and fell in light brown waves, mouth closed and grim in its posture. The girl shook her head from side to side, the act sending a small shiver up Cosima's spine, even amidst the heat of a Parisian summer._

_"Wha - ?" Cosima gasped. "Let me go!" She tried to break her arm free, yanking it back, but the girl held firm, fingers closing painfully tighter. Still, the girl only stared, shaking her head once more._

_"Let - "_ Tug _._

_"Me - "_ Tug _._

_"Go!"_

_At the final pull, Cosima slipped her hand free from the other girl's iron grip, the force of it sending her stumbling backwards into somebody's waist. The girl stepped back as well and opened her mouth, as if to gasp, but no noise came out. Disbelief colored her features as she recoiled. Cosima's hands trembled and she rubbed the pain from her nearly-crushed knuckles._

_The girl's fixed stare, a combination of intoxicating and eerie, would have been near impossible to break if not for the gasping French girl with golden ringlets down her back invading her thoughts. She propelled herself backwards and turned stiffly, persevering towards her original destination._

* * *

 

 

"Holy watershed. It's the girl!" Cosima exclaimed, legs shooting her upright. "The same girl I saw on the street last night with the _—_  she was playing hopscotch. But she looked the same as she did back then. Like, still a kid. Never grew up."

Delphine lifted one hand and Cosima helped her up from the floor until they stood together, fingers laced.

"What girl?"

"There was this girl in the crowd at that festival in Paris. She tried to _—_  I don't know _—_   _stop me_ from meeting you or something? This creepy little girl. During the riot."

Delphine's stomach dropped.

_The restaurant_ , she thought. And then, _It’s Aldous._

"The little girl with the dark eyes?"

"Yeah, I don't think she's ever blinked," Cosima shivered in exaggeration.

"I - I saw her last night. And I _knew —_  " Delphine's voice trailed off. She brought her hand to cover her mouth, teeth biting at her bottom lip. Her hazel eyes scattered over empty airspace, piecing together the smattering of impossible information she seemed to have collected.

"Knew _what_?" Cosima asked, tipping the blonde's chin up to meet her gaze. "What did you know, Delphine?"

When their eyes met, Delphine's hand fell from her lips and landed at Cosima's hip, squeezing and pulling her close. "I knew I had seen her before."

 

* * *

 

_Once her windpipe had relaxed, Delphine gasped in lungfuls of air, slowly with the help of the American girl—  this girl who had arrived out of seemingly nowhere, whose presence alone was able to comfort her. This girl who continued, even now, to pat her soothingly on the back._

_"Delphine!" she heard from above, a familiar stern voice. "Get up from the dirty ground. You will ruin your dress!"_

_Maman yanked her to her feet by the top of her arm until she was standing unsteady, swaying back and forth. The girl with the short dark hair stood on her own and took a few steps backwards, presumably finding safety in distance from her maman's chastising. She watched the girl wipe her hands over worn out jeans._

_"Come! We're already late because_ you _wandered off." Maman started her long strides once more, pulling her back into the crowd without a single word spoken to the girl who had saved her. This time, Delphine was not trusted to trail behind; she was dragged away with a grip stronger than she'd thought her maman capable of._

_Immediately, her view of the American girl was covered in the thickness of the racing crowd. "Merci!" she called out, but her voice was one small sound in an ocean of screams and thuds, drowned before it ever had a chance to surface._

_As they made their way to the other side of the festival and past the wall of bodies, her eyes caught on the enchanting image of a young girl with eyes like caves, standing at the edge of the festival fence. Delphine felt herself lock in, powerless to look away. In one hand, the little girl held a pinwheel, it's colors swirling as it spun around and around, circling slowly, despite the still, muggy air._

_Behind her, the high arc of an officer's arm ended at the back of a protester's head, a crack of his baton and the woman's frame fell forward, limp and unmoving, into the cobblestone street._

_The girl with the pinwheel didn't even flinch._

 

* * *

 

"You've seen her, too?" Cosima asked, pulling away to pace around the small space, the walls and floor rocking slightly from her movements in their suspension. "Thank God I'm not crazy."

"I think we might both be crazy," Delphine replied, an incredulous laugh at the end of her breath.

"Very possible," Cosima agreed with a flick of her wrist, waving her index finger above her head. "But think about it. In every lifetime, Cerball is in the mix already _—_  his new _reincarnation_ or whatever you want to call it. But this time is different. We beat him to it!"

Her wide grin at hopeful logic faltered when she turned to meet Delphine's eyes. The taller woman, standing now above her full height in heels, leaned back against the metal railing at the back wall of the elevator. Her eyes fluttered closed and she pinched the bridge of her nose in a heavy sigh.

"What?"

"I _—_  " She paused, lip pulled and bitten between her teeth, heart slamming at the inside of her ribcage. "I think I know who he is. His name is Aldous now and I _—_  " She sucked in a breath, working up the courage to deliver the final blow to Cosima's hopefulness. "We are seeing each other."

"He's your boyfriend?"

"Non, not boyfriend. He is my _—_  " Delphine threw up her hands and ran them down around the back of her neck, worrying the tensed muscles. "It's complicated."

"Are you in a relationship with him or not?" she asked, voice louder now than ever.

"It's not that _simple_ , Cosima."

In a surge of defeat and helplessness, the brunette spun and slammed her closed fist against the metal wall of their tiny, suspended room. The _crack_ of bone against such an unforgiving surface reverberated for a second. Immediately, Cosima pulled her hand back to shake it out, her knuckles split and throbbing.

"Goddammit!" Cosima huffed. "What could you _possibly_ see in him? He has _ruined_ us _—_   _literally_ been the death of us in so many lifetimes. Why would you _choose_ to be with him!?"

With eyes full of fire, she stopped, turning straight towards Delphine, awaiting an answer. But when she caught sight of her other half, a mixture of fear and guilt in her posture and tears at the corner of her eyes, Cosima's heart dropped into her stomach. And at the first sob, as Delphine's shoulders hunched forward, hand clamped over her mouth, Cosima felt the rage drained from her body.

Once again, the urge to comfort seemed to overwhelm Cosima, tugged to Delphine's side by the little red string that had connected them through so many lifetimes. Her arms around Delphine's waist, the blonde hunched and crumpled rapidly into the hug.

"It's my fault. It's always my fault," Delphine hiccuped, hands over her wet eyes. "Every time, it's _my_ actions, _my_ choices that get us killed."

Cosima swallowed hard. The same thought had crossed her mind a few times, and even fueled the little burst of anger she'd just displayed. However, hearing Delphine verbalize those thoughts out loud allowed her the distance to recognize the inherent flaw in assigning any blame to Delphine's actions. She took a shaky breath, held her other half's sobbing frame just a little bit tighter.

"It's not," she mumbled, stroking her hair, planting random kisses against the blonde waves under her nose.

"It is," Delphine sighed, pulling up, allowing Cosima to see her red, guilty eyes for the first time.

“It’s not!" Cosima pushed, cupping her cheek. "So far we’ve just been _pawns_ , stuck in this cycle. Unaware that it exists and unable to stop it. But this time it’s different. This time, for some reason, we know what’s going on. We know how this is supposed to finish, and maybe that knowledge is just what we need to break it!”

Delphine wiped at the bottom of her eyes, cleaning away the tiny bit of mascara that was now watery and gathered at the corners. She took a breath and felt Cosima breathe with her. A single set of lungs.

"And if Cerball _— Aldous —_ is part of this cycle, maybe we need him."

"Maybe," Delphine replied, nodding. "And we were able to meet before our time. Even before I knew you, you changed my life. That makes this life different as well."

"True!" Cosima smiled, her heart warming at the tiny bit of hope growing between them. “And then there's that little girl...  When I pulled my hand away from hers, she looked at me like it should have been impossible. I'm telling you _— this_ life is _different_. We have power this time! Destiny doesn’t always control us." Electric excitement crackled down her spine and up through her hands, still cupped and thumb caressing against the blonde's cheek. "Don't you see? She's never intervened before. She's never _had_ to! Against all odds, we found each other _way_ before we were supposed to."

"In a way, we have already broken the cycle." Delphine managed a smile, eyebrows lifting just before they fell again. "But we have had lifetimes of chances to change this before. Each time we were still separated. Or killed.”

“Delphine, look at me," Cosima requested, tipping up her soulmate's chin with one hand, linking fingers with the other. "We will not let that happen again.”

With a squeeze of their linked hands, the fluorescent lights above them flickered and the carriage that had been stagnant and stuck for so long began to drop.

“Here we go again.”

Delphine’s hair flew up as the cabin increased its speed, plummeting towards what must have been the the molten center of the earth. The temperature shot up every second, sweat collecting at their temples and the backs of their necks. “Do not forget who we really are this time,” Delphine yelled over the whirring noise of the walls and tightened her grip on Cosima’s shoulders. “It’s you and me. Right here. _This_ is the life we can change.”

“Whatever we’re about to see is just...  information. We can’t let ourselves get sucked in like before,” Cosima agreed, nearly screaming now.

“I’m here with you. Things will become hopeless like before, but I am here.”

A loud ticking sound was heard above the frantic screeches of shooting down a metal shaft much too quickly, drawing their attention to the flickering red numbers, drawing closer and closer to zero.

_00:28:54_

_00:28:53_

_00:28:52_

_00:28:51_

The floor _cracked_ as it crashed into the ground, or some other solid surface. They tumbled forward together, slamming into the ground from free-fall momentum, landing in a pile of intertwined limbs.

A sweet, simple ding sounded above their heads as they pushed themselves up onto their knees. The doors parted with an easy _swish_ and a blinding ray of light poured into the otherwise dim room, causing them both to squint and wince.

“Stay with me,” Cosima said, and linked their hands, the brightness and the heat already unbearable.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, it's been a while, hasn't it? We apologize for that. Season 3 ended up being a bit of a bummer for us, and we strayed from this story for a bit. But we're ready to get back to it now. We're excited!
> 
> Since it has been awhile, I'd suggest going back and reading the last couple chapters (or, hey, maybe just the whole story) before reading this part. A lot of critical info will be dropped, and you might need the refresher : )
> 
> Enjoy, friends!

_Going Up,_ pt. 12

by arabybizarre

_Toronto, 2067—Present Day_

He'd run, frantic, between floors one and four nearly three times before he spotted her. She was exiting the elevator on the fourth floor, snug in an elegant black coat; heels clicking against the tile in a chorus of self-possession as he called out, breathless.

"Marion!" His voice erupted, half-strangled; ribs quivering in resistance of every bounding step towards his colleague—his partner. His current vessel, though well-maintained and relatively fit for its age, had entered its final act. He could feel it in the creaking of his bones, the tightness of his windpipe as he struggled for breath. The time for chasing after his destiny had already passed. If he were yet to capture it, he could not do it alone.

Marion Bowles—kindred to him, though not quite adored—could sense this. Just as she could likely sense what had spurred his current state of panic. Her knowing showed itself in the faint yet prideful quirking of her lips, the haughty gleam in her dark eyes. As Aldous came to a halt, her name falling repeatedly from his lips, broken between each gasping breath, his hands fell upon her shoulders.

The heat, lukewarm and expected, burbled between them.

Firmly grasping his wrists, she removed his hands from her. "Good morning, Aldous," she began, tone wry. Smirking, she said, "You look absolutely dreadful."

"Marion," he gasped again, glancing up at her with piteous eyes, " _she's_ here—"

"Really," she continued, choosing to ignore his desperation. The resentment coiled tightly in her abdomen, though she carefully restrained its clawing—ever the professional, in both business _and_ pleasure. "Panic does not suit you."

Stymied by her obvious apathy, he straightened his posture, jaw squaring. After a few careful breaths, their gazes seemingly tied, yet still unwavering, he grit his teeth. "Where have you been?"

"Charlotte," she began, clearing her throat slightly, for emphasis, "she had a rough night. I stayed with her through the morning, until the fever went down." Aldous was the first to break, averting his gaze. "You understand," she concluded.

"I do."

After a moment, she turned on her heel, striding towards her office. "Come—we can talk once I've settled in."

His dread called to him, tugging him in the opposite direction. "Marion, there isn't time—"

She stopped abruptly, glancing over her shoulder. "Trust me—time will be of no consequence here." Unperturbed, she continued walking, pulling her ID badge from her coat.

With his heart still hammering in his chest, Aldous swallowed thickly, and respectfully followed.

* * *

_Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000_

"Can you say _ahh_?" The little boy, face freckled and pallid, opened his mouth slightly, eyes clenching shut in pain.

Beside him, his mother squeezed his hand, her husband sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, foot tapping nervously against the floor. "Stick your tongue out, Sweetie." Frowning, he followed his mother's instructions, allowing the nurse to glance fully into his throat. The boy's tonsils were horribly swollen—his throat nearly closed from their burgeoning—beat red, and dotted with the all too familiar pale yellow pustules she'd come to fear in the past month.

In this moment, Sylvie was grateful for the precautionary facemask that she wore, for the boy's parents—nervous, yet clinging to the hope of a more commonplace contagion—would be unable to see the way her lips pursed over a frown.

Giving nothing away, she looked the boy in the eyes and gently explained, "I'm going to touch your neck, okay? I'll be very careful." He nodded, looking afraid. He flinched when Sylvie's fingers grazed his engorged lymph nodes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. While these particular examinations had grown all too familiar in the past month, her stomach still dropped every time she had to test the children. Once a diagnosis was made, their fates were always sealed.

With this particular virus, there may be some possibility of a miracle. None had yet graced the halls of Mount Sinai, however.

As she placed her stethoscope against his chest, her hand at his back, softly mooring the boy's quaking body as he struggled to pull in a deep breath, Sylvie already knew. The parents did, too, she supposed. It was in their eyes—fear had already doomed them, doomed their feeble son; but neither party could bring themselves to even suggest the idea.

"He'll need bloodwork," she hastily explained, rushing through the motions. Her heart constricted at the false comfort of her own denial. Brow pinched, she handed a sloppily written referral to the boy's mother, his father rising suddenly.

"Of course—"

"Does that mean needles," the boy asked, voice small.

Clenching her jaw, Sylvie glanced down at him and nodded. "A tiny one," she gestured with her thumb and forefinger. "But that's nothing," she assured him, opening her arms up wide, "compared to someone this big and brave, right?"

His smile was faint. "I guess so…" The mother placed her arm around him.

Sylvie grit her teeth. She wanted to console this boy, really. But he was one of _so_ many, lately. And the platitudes had grown exhausting. She was all too relieved to guide them out the door of the examination room, directing them towards the lab.

When they were gone, she stood out in the busy hospital corridor and sighed. She wanted to sit, wanted to sleep. Some long forgotten part of her brain cried out, _"Eat!"_ but she was too focused to entertain it. The nourishment she sought could not be obtained from a hot meal, or a warm bed; nor could it be obtained from the sympathies of her colleague.

There was only one source for her comfort right now, and it lay a floor below, in The Bubble.

"Mary," she called, jogging up to the other nurse as she stood at the information desk, chatting with the receptionist.

The woman turned to her, eyes wide in curiosity, mask affixed on her own face. "Yeah?"

"Can you cover the next round for me? I have to head down to the ICU."

"Sure," Mary replied tentatively. "I was just finishing my break."

"Thanks—"

"Have you taken yours?"

Sylvie chuckled, tone unexpectedly derisive. "My break?"

"Yeah." The concern in Mary's eyes was apparent.

Sylvie softened slightly, glancing up at the clock. "Three hours—my shift is over."

"That's not the break I was talking about."

Expression concealed behind her mask, Sylvie smiled. "I know." Before Mary could protest further, she squeezed her shoulder and headed in the direction of the elevator, calling to her over her shoulder. "I owe you a coffee!"

* * *

In the past month, the ICU had transformed with the insurgence of new bodies requiring admittance. These bodies, however, were not of the usual ilk. Like the boy Sylvie had just examined, these bodies carried the H2N7 strain. And once the contagion's incubation period had concluded, and the virus had matured within them—a startlingly rapid process, they had discovered—these bodies could not come into contact with any others.

These bodies required quarantine.

Which is why The Bubble had been constructed: a large scale containment that had, so far, swallowed up half of the ICU, housing those victims of H2N7 whose bodies had fought off the pandemic long enough to survive into maturity. Victims whose bodies offered hope to doctors. Victims whose bodies were subject to experimentation.

Sylvie's stomach clenched with guilt when she considered the pain these patients must endure. They were anomalies, each and every one. Thus far, the mortality rate for H2N7, also known as the Millennium Flu, had remained at an overwhelming 100%, with no cure in sight. Most who contracted it died within a matter of days. There were a select few, however, who had managed to survive a matter of weeks. And while these patients were destined to the same grim fate as all others who had fallen before them, their uncharacteristic perseverance did offer doctors some insight into that elusive vaccine. For that reason, Sylvie and her colleagues were obligated to do everything in their power to keep these people alive, in spite of their pleas otherwise.

As Sylvie stepped into the decontamination chamber, donning the isolation suit that had grown all too familiar to her in recent weeks, her mind drifted on autopilot. She was one of only a few nurses allowed clearance into The Bubble—a privilege that was likely only afforded to her by the Chief of Medicine's favor—and even so, she was authorized precious few visits a day.

During each of her shifts, she had been assigned a Bubble rotation every eight hours or so—usually, one at the start of her day, and one at the end. However, in the past week and a half, she had taken it upon herself to walk a third round at her own liberty. This particular shift had _not_ been authorized, however—if it was thanks to Dr. Fitzpatrick's leniency with her, she did not know—she had yet to be reprimanded for these unnecessary third checkups.

At first she had tried to convince herself that this risk was taken solely in the name of compassion. As she entered safely into The Bubble, her own breath echoing inside the suit's helmet, her heart ached at the parade of miserably ill faces that greeted her. Forcing a sense of responsibility, she stopped at each bed to make sure that their charts matched their respective monitors, that each body was still breathing, if not entirely living. As Sylvie neared the end of the hall, however, heart rate quickening, she knew that this routine had been nothing if not a show.

While the majority of these anomalies only lasted a week in The Bubble, there was one patient who had managed to last an astounding _four_ weeks. Her continuing survival had not only baffled doctors, but thrilled them. For that reason, she had become a veritable guinea pig for experimentation.

Their constant poking and prodding disgusted Sylvie. To them, this woman was merely a means to an end. Her days were numbered, they all knew—she could pass any day. And with so little time left, they felt an equally small amount of guilt in treating her like a lab rat.

Sylvie had known this from the beginning. The woman had always been stronger than the others, and so she had always been a target. And Sylvie had always made it a point to linger near her isolation tent, to offer her what meager reassurances she could. Early on, these had come in the form of small talk, of feeble yet well-meaning jokes. The woman had been oddly calm from the day of her admittance—a tranquility that had unflaggingly remained, even as the days grew longer and more painful, and her mortality slipped visibly from her grasp.

Sylvie had been amazed by the woman's optimism, her every grin. Most patients in far better conditions showed less hopefulness than this woman. The nurse couldn't help but be drawn to her.

While early on their conversations had been simple, they had quickly evolved into more personal matters. They were limited, of course, by both time and the constricting intercom system they were forced to communicate through, but her patient had a way of injecting remarkably philosophical non sequiturs into the most innocuous of exchanges. Her insights stuck with Sylvie long after she'd leave the hospital—for days, sometimes—dogging her as she'd lie in bed at night, desperate for sleep.

The woman had surpassed intrigue. She had begun to haunt Sylvie.

Some days—some impossibly long, lonesome days—this woman, marked for death, felt like the only person who understood Sylvie: her exhaustion, her compassion, her inability to truly connect with her colleagues, and her fear of the unrelenting blight that had swept the globe over.

It was a mistake to grow attached, she knew—it was mistake to grow attached to _any_ patient, let alone one who didn't have even the slightest chance at survival.

Still, as she approached the woman's tent, saw her smiling weakly behind the glass in anticipation, she knew that it could not be helped.

She spoke into the intercom, smiling in return. "Good afternoon, Paige." The call was inevitable.

* * *

_Toronto, 2067—Present Day_

Marion's calmness was maddening. She knew as well as he what this all meant—what disaster it would surely portend—yet still, she showed no signs of alarm. Aldous ground his teeth, hand cupping his jaw as he waited for her to finish unpacking her bag.

"Your leg," she said, not taking her eyes from the folders she stacked on her desk. Huffing, Aldous glanced down at his right knee, which bounced nervously in anticipation. Placing a hand upon it, he stilled himself.

The waiting was unbearable. "I don't know where they've gone," he said, voice strained, quiet. "I think I might have…"

He couldn't bring himself to finish. Marion concluded for him, "Lost them?" He averted his gaze, glancing at the oil painting on the wall, which depicted two peacocks, one white and one green, sat facing each other on a branch. He'd always hated that painting.

"You always think that," she reminded him, finally taking a seat behind her desk.

Turning back to her, he curtly said, "We've had some close calls in the past."

" _You've_ had some close calls," she corrected. "No matter the outcome, it's always been my job to clean up the mess."

He sat up, nostrils flaring, "You know that's not—"

"It is, Aldous. It's true."

He sat poised at the edge of his seat, ready to spring up at a moment's notice. The tension coiled within him. A flame burgeoned through his limbs, the heat of it physically stinging him.

Marion sighed, shaking her head. "I'm really tired. You know?"

He licked his lips. He was tired, too—of the abstractions, the wondering. Still, he grit his teeth and humored her. It was his duty, after all. "The past year has been a long one."

Marion laughed suddenly. "The past _year?_ " For a brief moment, her composure broke. He could see the despair pass through her eyes, the lines along her face becoming suddenly more visible. She pursed her lips, swallowing, before turning away. "I don't know what it is," she began quietly, staring out the window. Below, the city streets were calm—unusually so, Aldous realized, gulping. "Lately, I can just feel the weight of it." Suddenly, Marion turned back to him, gaze piercing. Her brow pinched in sorrow. "All those lives— _too many_ lives."

He recoiled, his abrupt, unexpected guilt turning into an instinctive defense. The anger was so easy, so sharp. "I've tried to make it right," he hissed. "You know that. But there are some things that are… beyond me even."

She raised her eyebrows. "I know that."

The admission sounded like insolence to him. He hunched forward, digging his palms into the edge of the desk. "Did you bring me here to mock me?"

Marion smiled, sadly. He held his breath. "Aldous… I couldn't give a shit about that."

The man stood, his chair scraping back along the floor jarringly. In spite of herself, Marion flinched. "Then why are you _wasting_ my time?"

She took a shaky breath, looking over at the peacock painting. Her fists clenched on the armrest of the chair. How could she possibly explain to him how hard it all was for _her_? He'd never understood that—never _could_. And even if it were possible, she knew he wouldn't care.

Not when his lover walked free, in the arms of another.

Still, in a different life—in the only one that mattered—Marion and Aldous had been bound to each other. The gods themselves had blessed their union. And try as she might, the cursed woman still could not break it.

"I like this life," she said, near a whisper. It was the only explanation she could offer him.

"What?"

"Marion Bowles," she said, turning to him. "I like her. I like this woman, this vessel." She smiled. "I like her home. I like her work. Her child—" She stopped, taking a breath. "—My child. I _love_ her."

"She's one of many," Aldous slowly reminded her.

"It doesn't matter," Marion revolted, tone sharp. "I love her. And I am—" She bit back a sob. "I'm tired of leaving my children."

Aldous dropped his head, unable to quell his shame. After a long moment, listening to Marion's breaths as she resisted tears, he whispered, "I'm sorry—for this prison."

Marion stood. "I am, too." Taking another deep breath, she crossed the room, stopping at the table against the far wall. There sat a decanter of scotch, a few glasses, a bowl of fruit.

"You shouldn't be sorry," Aldous said, staring straight ahead, out the window.

"I _feel_ sorry," she insisted, plucking a pomegranate from the bowl. She held it in her palm, running her thumb over the skin. "I was never really meant to be a wife," she told him, shrugging slightly. "And maybe that's why I could never keep you." Marion paused. "Now, a mother, on the other hand…"

When Aldous lifted his gaze to meet her, she was staring just over his shoulder, smiling. Curious, his brow furrowed.

As he turned, his blood ran cold.

* * *

_Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000_

Her stories, though brief as the time they were granted together, never failed to make Sylvie laugh, or to shock her.

Before she was sick—only a month ago, though it seemed odd to think it had been that short a time—Paige had been a travel journalist, often working for _National_ _Geographic._ Six months ago, she'd been in Brazil writing an article about that Huni Kuin people when she'd "accidentally" done ayahuasca.

"I was there to learn their culture, Sylvie," she explained, trying not to cough. Her body heaved against the force of it. "They offered me tea," she shook, smile persisting. "It would have been rude to—" Unable to hold back any longer, the cough roared forth, her frail body lifting from the bed.

"Paige," Sylvie called out in concern. Her heart skipped in anxiety. The emergency call button was only a few feet away.

Her eyes clenched. Sylvie could see tears spilling from the corners as she rubbed her chest, settling back into the mattress. She waved the nurse off, nodding as she took in a much needed breath. Still, she wheezed.

The lungs were always the first to fail.

Sylvie bit her bottom lip as the silence settled between them. "Are you all right?" She asked, voice quiet, worried.

Paige nodded in response, clearing her throat. "It's fine," she blinked, though they both knew it wasn't. This time, her smile didn't return. After several moments, she asked the nurse, "Do you think that… that could've been it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could that have made me sick?"

Sylvie's heart sank. Though she tried to hide it, the regret in Paige's voice was apparent. "Probably not," the nurse answered honestly. "Everyone… no matter where they are, is at risk. It's just... the sickness is everywhere."

She nodded again. "My still being here—do you think it'll help—" She coughed again. "—it'll help someone else?"

Sylvie wanted to lie to her. With another patient, she may have. Nurses _could_ lie. It wasn't necessarily ethical, but they had the luxury of leaving the hard decisions to the doctors if they wanted to.

But this was Paige. So, she told her, "I don't know. I really hope so."

"Me, too." She looked up, smiling the best she could. Her face was still half contorted in pain. "It's kind of screwed up, isn't it? Almost seems like the world is ending."

She was being sarcastic, trying to joke—though with her, it was sometimes hard to tell. Still, Sylvie didn't find the humor in that idea. "It's not," she assured her. "Influenza happens. New strains are always evolving. It's just the way of things."

Paige's brow furrowed as she grew uncharacteristically serious. "At this rate though? Black Death, every ten years—I don't know that that's _natural_."

Sylvie took a breath, staring at the wall. "This isn't the Black Death."

"Really?" She smirked. "Could have fooled _me_."

The nurse's pager went off just as she opened her mouth to respond. "Shit," she said, glancing down.

"What is it?"

"Dr. Fitzpatrick," she sighed, shaking her head. "Listen, I'm sorry to cut this short—" She looked up, the forlorn expression on Paige's face stalling her.

"I know. It's okay," the patient reassured her.

"It's—" _It's_ _not_ , she wanted to say. But that wasn't necessarily true. This was her job. She had no choice. "I don't want to leave you," she said quietly instead. It _was_ the truth.

"I know that, too." Paige glanced down, frowning. Saying goodbye was always hard for both of them, maybe because they both knew every time could be the last. Still, Paige's brave face rarely wavered. What was different today?

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm just…" Paige looked away, voice small. "It gets lonely in here. And I don't…" She stopped again, perhaps biting back a cough.

Sylvie's heart ached. She forced a smile bright enough for the both of them. "Hey, you know my schedule. I'll stop back in before I leave tonight, okay?"

After a moment, Paige nodded, looking up to meet Sylvie's gaze. She still did not smile, but her eyes glimmered. "Okay."

* * *

"Sylvie, could you shut the door, please?"

She was in trouble, and she knew it. For the Chief of Medicine to call her into his office at all did not bode well. That he requested she close the door behind her was downright nerve-wracking.

Still, Sylvie complied, coming to stand before his desk a moment later.

"Why don't you sit." It was a command, she realized. Not a request. "All right then," Dr. Fitzpatrick began, steepling his hands over the desk. He leaned forward and smiled, showing his teeth. No matter the circumstance, whenever the doctor looked at her like that, Sylvie felt as if she was being preyed upon.

Dr. Fitzpatrick had always liked her. From her first day at Mount Sinai, he'd taken special care to guide Sylvie, to be near her as often as possible. The attention had flattered her, initially. The Chief of Medicine was a handsome man, if not a bit too old for her tastes. In addition to that, he was wealthy, and made no effort to hide it. That he had any interest in her, despite her status, ought to have been welcome.

More often than not though, Dr. Fitzpatrick's presence made her feel uncomfortable. She understood that he was a man who was not accustomed to being told _No_. She also understood that he was a man preoccupied with material possessions, with ownership. And Sylvie did not have an interest in being owned by anybody.

Being alone with the man in his office left her feeling anxious. If he wasn't going to reprimand her for something, there was a fair chance he may make an advance. Honestly, she didn't know what would be worse.

"I hope I didn't interrupt your break."

"Oh, no," she shook her head. "I'd already eaten. I was just enjoying sitting down for a few minutes."

"Mhm," he nodded, smile unwavering. "I understand. It's been a long day." He chuckled. "Excuse me—a long month."

"Yes," she readily agreed.

He sighed suddenly. "Some of the patients we've had coming in—they're just hopeless, aren't they?" She swallowed, waiting for him to continue. "It's sad, truly. They're not dying a pleasant death."

"No," Sylvie quietly agreed.

"They deserve our kindness, our care."

"They do."

He smiled again, looking at her with obvious scrutiny. "You excel in those areas."

Uncomfortable beneath his gaze, she tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you, sir."

"Connor," he corrected, wagging a finger playfully. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Sorry, Connor."

"That's better." He sat back, still watching her carefully. "Though in times like these," his brow furrowed suddenly, "we have to remember, we can still _kill_ our patients with kindness."

She paused, expecting this comment to be rhetorical. After a few prolonged moments of silence, however, she realized it was not. "I'm sorry? I don't—"

"You've been spending a great deal of time in The Bubble."

_Oh_. So he had known. For how long, she could not be sure. She deflated slightly. "I have, sir." She caught herself, hoping to curry his favor. "Connor," she smiled sheepishly.

He paused, frowning. "Aside from the obvious health risks involved, Sylvie, you do realize that it is a fool's errand?"

She chose her words carefully. "Tending to them?"

"Caring."

She swallowed. Her palms were growing clammy in her lap. "I know… But those patients—they're so… alone. All the time. They can't even really talk to each other."

"Then it's a good thing they won't be there long," he chuckled.

Sylvie's jaw tightened slightly. "Not all of them."

His laughter ceased. After a moment he said, "Ms. Spence has put up an admirable fight. But even she doesn't have much time."

"No." The way she said it, it was hard to tell if she was agreeing or disagreeing. Her brow furrowed. "But she _does_ have time."

Dr. Fitzpatrick nodded. "Maybe." After a moment, he turned to his computer, frowning. "In any case, I think it might be in your best interest if we take you off quarantine rounds." Her stomach twisted. She should have expected this. Still, it hurt. The thought of not seeing Paige every day—for however many days she had left—it was unacceptable.

"When?"

"Hmm?" He looked up, seeming suddenly, unrealistically disinterested.

"When should I stop?"

The answer seemed obvious to him. He looked at her as if she were a fool. "Well, immediately, of course."

"Oh." She sat there for a moment. Her chest felt very tight, all of a sudden. It was difficult to breathe.

"Yes, well. I think that will be all, Sylvie. Thank you."

"Okay." She stood, feeling in a daze.

As she was reaching for the door handle he said, "And Sylvie?" She turned. Dr. Fitzpatrick was smiling. "I mean it. I really don't want to see you down there again."

Unable to speak, she simply nodded.

* * *

_Toronto, 2067—Present Day_

"Are you hungry?"

Aghast, Aldous found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move, aside from the trembling that unconsciously seized his limbs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Marion. It was obvious, by the way her warm gaze, her amused smile lingered on the little girl behind him that her inquiry had not been directed at him. Sweat began to form at his temples.

The girl—pale, ethereal face framed in chestnut waves; eyes hollow as the ages of torment she had rained down upon them—smiled in kind.

Grin widening, Marion stepped forward.

_Traitor,_ Aldous' mind screamed, though his mouth could not heed his violent thoughts.

She knelt reverently before the girl, not sparing a glance in Aldous' direction, and held the pomegranate in offering. "It's one of mine," Marion said gently, meeting the girl's eyes. Their gazes locked in silence. "What do you call yourself now?" Coyly, the girl smirked. Marion chuckled. "This form suits you."

Laying one small hand over top the pomegranate, she calmly answered, in a voice both vacuous and childlike. "Kira."

Marion bowed her head. _"Kira,"_ she repeated, in veneration. After a moment, she lifted her head again, pushing the fruit towards her. "I would be _honored."_

"No," Aldous keened suddenly, his voice returning to him, cracked and strained. Like a whip, the girl trained her gaze on him, her brown irises darkening. Aldous gasped and sputtered, as if a great weight had fallen abruptly on his chest. Again, he was helpless, watching as Kira took the pomegranate in her hands, and held it between her palms.

For a moment she simply stared, the smile slowly fading from her lips. And then she pressed, the pomegranate crushed by her otherworldly strength. Seeds spilled to the white floor, juice trickling down between her tiny fingers.

She looked up at Aldous, his face frozen in horror, and spoke in a tone comprised of a thousand different voices.

"You will eat."

* * *

_Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000_

Mary was placed on Bubble rounds in her stead. When Sylvie found out, she asked her, "Can you tell Ms. Spence that I've been removed?"

Mary chuckled. "I think she'll be able to figure that one out herself."

"Just tell her," Sylvie pleaded, "please." And while the other nurse did not understand—not her urgency, or her obvious distress—she acquiesced.

For three days, she could not break away. Dr. Fitzpatrick's orders had been clear, as had his hidden implications, but it had never been Sylvie's intention to follow his rules. For all she knew, Paige did not have another three days left in her. If she didn't say goodbye soon, properly, she would never get the chance.

And while she could not quite understand this pull she felt, this desperation to be there, in the end, she also could not deny it. If she never saw Paige again, she would not forgive herself.

On the fourth day, one of her colleagues had fallen ill with a terrible migraine, and asked if there would be anybody willing to cover his overnight shift. Sylvie seized the opportunity, volunteering immediately. She stayed away from Dr. Fitzpatrick's office, but watched when, at 9pm, he locked his door, briefcase in hand, and left the hospital.

She waited a half an hour before she jogged down to the ICU, heart hammering in her chest, and entered The Bubble.

She'd asked Mary about Paige's condition, not bothering to hide her obvious investment. "Well, to me, she doesn't seem _good_ ," Mary had replied, curious as to why Sylvie was so interested in the first place. "But it's hard to tell. I mean—they're all…"

_Dying._ The word hung between. Sylvie knew it to be true. Some were just dying faster than others.

When she was finally back inside quarantine, she didn't even bother to check on the other patients. This wasn't business, after all. For her, it was personal. As she neared Paige's isolation tent, however, her heart sank. The woman was sleeping, but the look of pain upon her face was all too apparent, her cheeks appearing far more gaunt, her complexion paler than it had been only a few days ago. A cursory glance at her chart showed that she had _not_ , in fact, been good at all.

For a moment, Sylvie closed her eyes, throat tightening against the guilt. It wasn't her fault. Realistically, she knew that. But she couldn't help feeling like she should've done something more.

Still, Paige was alive—here, now. She was breathing. There _was_ time.

Sylvie cleared her throat, pressing the call button on the intercom. "Paige?" The woman in the bed did not move. "Paige," she tried again, brow furrowing. "Please… wake up."

She held her breath for what felt like several moments before Paige began to stir, her eyes cracking open shortly after. At first, there was no recognition in her gaze. She glanced around her surroundings in a daze until, finally, her eyes settled on Sylvie, widening marginally.

They shone brightly in relief, as if a soothing balm had fallen upon her the moment Sylvie's presence neared. The nurse grinned, staring silently, graciously into her gaze. She placed her fingertips upon the tent, as if to reach out. Paige smiled back, tears shining in her deep, brown orbs—

" _Remember… remember the color of my eyes."_

Sylvie recoiled with a gasp, shocked by the invasion of an unknown voice in her head. It came to her like a memory, but she could not recognize it as her own. Her hand trembled slightly.

"Paige," she called again, shaking off the strange sensation—as if her heart had gone weightless for a brief moment, fluttering with nauseating swiftness. "Are you okay?" The other woman nodded slightly, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "I'm so sorry I never came back. It's just that Dr. Fitzpatrick—"

"I know," Paige told her, voice croaky from disuse. She cleared her throat, coughed. "The other nurse told me." She sounded weak, the words themselves seeming to sap her of a great deal of energy.

Sylvie sighed, shaking her head. "I still meant to visit."

"Couldn't you… get in trouble?"

Sylvie averted her gaze. "Maybe…"

After a pause, Paige told her. "You don't have to come back."

She looked up again, brow knitted in dissent. "Of course I'll come back. I want to—"

"No," Paige shook her head feebly. "That's not what I mean."

Sylvie blinked, staring back into the other woman's unwavering gaze. A sudden, sharp pain lanced through the back of her skull. She winced, confused, hand reaching instinctively for the back of her own head. That odd weightlessness returned, and with it, another wave of nausea.

" _Remember the color of my eyes."_ She tried to shake it off, this unknown voice, but it left her rattled, dizzy. For a moment, the shape of Paige's nose and mouth seemed to transform, the color of her auburn hair darkening. She blinked.

Maybe she should've heeded the other nurses' advice and eaten something, or actually taken the time to sleep. The exhaustion—or perhaps it was the anxiety—was starting to get to her.

She couldn't concern herself with that now though. Because Paige was here, and she clearly needed her.

"What—" Sylvie shook her head, attempting to clear this strange fog. "What do you mean?"

Paige licked her lips, coughing again. She glanced down at her lap, wringing her hands. "I can just… feel it. My body isn't…" Her bottom lip quivered slightly, familiarly. Sylvie narrowed her eyes, fighting against the sudden sense that she was forgetting something very important. "It's just too much."

"Are you—are you saying…?" She knew. As she strained her ears, she could hear—the way that Paige wheezed, the way her body tensed. She knew what she was saying.

Paige was quiet. As the tears escaped the corners of her eyes, Sylvie's heart broke. "You shouldn't say that," Sylvie told her. The other woman shrugged, or tried to. Her body was seized by a hacking cough before she could.

Sylvie flexed her hands, fists tightening, and closed her eyes. The back of her head throbbed again. "You have to be confident," she said, through gritted teeth. "You have to—"

"— _be confident. I'm confident in us."_

The pain intensified, the floor seeming to tilt beneath her feet. Sylvie whimpered, forcing her eyes open again.

"Sylvie," Paige began, struggling through her tears, the shortness of her breath. "It's okay. I'm not—I'm ready." Sylvie shook her head against the pain, against Paige's words, tears spilling from her own eyes. "I am. It's okay, I just—" Paige gasped suddenly. Sylvie's heart stopped. The sick woman forced herself to continue. "I just don't want to do this alone."

"No," Sylvie sucked in a shaky breath. Everything was spinning. She leaned against the nearest table for support, shaking her head. "You're not. It's not—"

"I would do anything," Paige continued, her voice quickening, in spite of her wheezing. "Just to… feel another's person's skin. One last time, before I go."

Sylvie opened her eyes suddenly, the room righting itself for a brief moment as she looked straight into the other woman's eyes.

Then the room shifted, everything around her seeming to fall away. Suddenly she was inside of a metal box, the floor unsteady beneath her, a set of numbers ticking above her head—a memory that she did not know to be hers.

_"Just… take a deep breath,"_ Paige said, her face ricocheting through a dizzying number of unique features. Auburn hair; dark, silken tresses; dreadlocks. Glasses, facemasks, wide-brimmed sunhats. Brown eyes, blue eyes, almond eyes.

Always a smile.

" _Feel my hand in yours. Feel my warmth on your cheek. Remember… remember the color of my eyes."_

The same woman, reaching for her.

For a brief moment—or several brief moments, even-time seemed to stand still. Paige's body had frozen, mid-cough; the lifelines on the monitor halting in tandem. A desolate silence seized the room. Alarmed, Sylvie turned on her heel, unsure of what she should expect. All through the room, bodies, monitors, and blinking lights had been arrested.

She sucked in a stilted breath, heart sputtering in her chest. The blood pooled audibly within her-she could hear it thumping wetly in her own ears. Startled, she turned back to face Paige's tent.

A strange face reflected in its glass door captured her attention.

It was the face of a woman—fair-skinned, with hazel eyes and blonde curls that contrasted sharpy with her dark skin and hair. Frightened, she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to find this strange figure standing behind her. The room, however, was empty, save for herself and the frozen bodies of her patients.

Tentatively, she neared the glass, the woman seeming to mirror her approach. As she stood before this unknown reflection, the nurse opened her dry mouth, as if to speak. The woman opened her mouth, too. And when she lifted a hand to her hair, the woman matched her, touching her pale curls.

Their brows furrowed.

_Who are you?_ she thought. But when she opened her mouth, the words, "We have to stop this," came out instead. Sylvie's eyes widened. It was not her voice.

She shut her mouth tightly. Suddenly, the other woman broke her reflection.

"If you walk away, she will die."

Before Sylvie could respond, the other woman lifted a finger to the glass and pointed.

Uncertain, Sylvie glanced over her shoulder, and gasped—for she saw herself, walking from The Bubble, offering Paige one last, grievous look in parting. The clock above the door, and every clock in the room, Sylvie realized, spun forward, rushing through time. Scared, she turned back, watching as Paige's body—alone—reanimated. She drifted in and out of hours of sleep, tossing slightly in her bed, in only seconds' time; until, finally, her body ceased its moving. The monitor flatlined.

"No," Sylvie managed to choke out, her own voice reclaimed. Time froze again.

"It's true," the woman said, redirecting her attention. "But I can stop it."

"How?" Sylvie's heart beat nearly out of her chest.

"Just let me. Let me take control."

The nurse shook her head. "How-I don't understand."

"We don't have _time_ for you to understand. Just… don't fight me."

In a dizzying rush, time and sound returned. Sylvie blinked-confused, disbelieving. In the glass before her, she was greeted by her own face.

The pressure in her throat, however, was beyond her.

"Cos—" Sylvie choked on the name, sputtering as some outside force willed her mouth to form around the syllables. The pain in her head had dulled, but her chest tightened immeasurably, limbs fighting for control against an unknown force. With watering eyes, her gaze darted to the emergency evacuation button on the opposite wall.

As a nurse, she didn't have the key code necessary to open Paige's isolation tent. She could, however, hit the emergency evac that would open every tent in the room simultaneously. This would contaminate the entire Bubble, she knew—an act that, while reversible, would undoubtedly end in her termination from Mount Sinai, if not much worse. But with emergency lockdown engaged, they would be offered a precious few minutes—perhaps five or ten—to be together.

A part of her mind screamed— _No! You will contaminate yourself!—_ but there was some other ghostly part, crushingly strong, that reminded her— _Let me take control. No harm can come to you._

"Sylvie?"

She glanced at Paige again, the echo of a thousand different faces staring back at her in fear.

Taking a leap of faith, she relaxed her body, feeling herself falling backwards into the phantom embrace of another. The wrinkles of her mind were soothed by its cool voice, its steely determination.

_We will not let her die again._

"You'll never be alone," the other spoke through her.

"What are you—"

Without giving it another thought, she bounded across the room, punching the emergency evac.

* * *

_Toronto, 2067—Present Day_

"You will _eat_ ," Kira said again, voice low.

Aldous' entire body spasmed once as he fought to move against his shock. He stared first at the girl's hands, at the pulp clutched in her palms, the red running down her wrists. Then he lifted his gaze to meet her eyes. The irises had blackened, pupils expanding lengthwise into slits, just like—

" _Serpent,"_ he hissed, his strength returning to him in a wave of unrelenting fury.

"Eat," she repeated again.

He stepped to the side, around Marion's back, chest heaving with each enraged breath.

Kira shook a small fist, flecks of pulp falling to the ground as she pushed the pomegranate towards him. "This will be your last meal—"

He shook his head, backing up towards the door. She could stop him if she wished, he knew. But she was never one to take by force. She was merely a guiding hand.

"You cannot force me, girl."

Her face darkened as she launched the fistful of pulp in his direction, seeds skittering at his feet. Her voice dropped several octaves as she bellowed, "You will eat, _Zeus._ "

He halted of his own accord, staring at the girl with wide eyes. Millennia had passed since anyone had addressed him by his true name.

Clenching his fists, he smiled down at her, shaking his head slowly. "The gods do not bow."

Instead, Aldous ran.

* * *

_Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000_

Sylvie watched. Her body was still her own, but there was another within her, guiding her movements.

Paige stared, wide-eyed, as she cast off the barriers of her hazard suit, jogging eagerly to her bedside. "Sylvie, why would you—" The words caught in her throat as the nurse sank to her knees by the bed, grasping the dying woman's hand in both of her own.

Sylvie could feel the protrusion of her bones beneath her skin, so thin it was nearly diaphanous. She did her best to breathe warmth into her, rubbing her hands soothingly. Paige's mouth hung open in shock, but the tears fell freely, too, the gratitude shining in her eyes.

"You weren't supposed to do that," she whispered, barely audible over the blaring of the emergency klaxons

Sylvie looked up at her, brow furrowed. Did the woman even understand what she'd said—what that could mean? The room had begun to spin a little less, the pain in her head dulled save for the pulsing cacophony of voices that had awakened there. She couldn't catch her breath though. There wasn't the time.

"Do you know who I am?" she whispered hastily-it was the other's inquiry. Sylvie could sense the woman's hope concurrently with her own curiosity. She could hear doctors, nurses on the other side of the room, too, knowing it would take them minutes yet to undergo the sterilization necessary to enter The Bubble.

Paige's brows knit. "What?"

Sylvie squeezed her hands. "Please—look at me. Do you know who _I_ am?"

Paige stammered for a moment before replying, "You're Sylvie."

"No—" The nurse shook her head, the words gushing forth rapidly. "I mean—I am. I am Sylvie. But I am… so many others." She looked up at the other woman, her face beginning to change shape again. She could see her hair darkening, knotting; glasses taking shape over her eyes; a silver hoop pierced through her nose. "Can't you see the others? Can't you see _me?_ "

Frightened now, unsure of what to say, the woman shook her head.

"Paige?"

The tears were apparent in her voice. "Sylvie… I don't know—"

"No. Cos—" Her throat nearly closed, jaw slamming shut against her will. She could hear people shouting across the room, banging on the glass. The klaxons seemed to grow louder. "Cos—" She gritted her teeth, and began to push. Her entire body stiffened, then convulsed slightly, hands tightening over Paige's.

"Sylvie!" Paige's voice quaked in alarm.

"Cos—im—"

"Please," Paige cried. "You're hurting me!"

Sylvie's jaw popped as the other choked out, "Cosima!"

* * *

_Toronto, 2067—Present Day_

He made it to the lobby before the pain began—a sharp, stabbing jolt that cut right through his heart, stopping him dead in his tracks.

To see him running crazed through the DYAD lobby had been enough to garner strange looks and muffled questions from his employees and colleagues. But as he stumbled, half falling to his knees as he clutched his chest, the receptionist rose in alarm.

"Dr. Leekie," Martin shouted. "Are you all right, sir?"

" _Dr._ _Leekie,"_ Aldous gasped, the edges of his vision beginning to blacken. Martin was at his side, arm on his shoulder.

"Somebody call an ambulance," the other man shouted. "Dr. Leekie—"

"No," he wheezed, sending Martin sprawling towards the ground. He pushed himself up, shaking his head. The pain was already beginning to recede slightly. "No, I just need some air."

* * *

_Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000_

Paige stared at her, bewildered; but Sylvie could see the recognition skirting the edges of her eyes, the gears turning. She was alert.

The other seized the moment.

" _Take a deep breath,"_ she said, echoing Cosima's own words from back in the elevator. _"Feel my hand in yours. Feel my warmth on your cheek. Remember the color of my eyes."_

And Paige _did_ , she could see, as her gaze widened, pupils dilating.

" _Remember that moment, before any of this started, when I took your hand, and gave you my name, and we were just…"_

Together, Sylvie and her other waited with baited breath.

After a long moment, the dying woman exhaled shakily, tears streaming down her face, and answered, "Cosima Niehaus." Then, cupping the nurse's cheek in her hand. "And Delphine Cormier."

Around them, time stopped again, and the room spun. The women embraced, sheltered in a circle of other bodies—some of their faces familiar; some young, and some old. A Samurai and her lover. A slave, and the dear friend she wished to free. A woman betrothed, and her bard. And so many more.

As one, they smiled.

As one, they loved.

* * *

_Toronto, 2067—Present Day_

Outside of DYAD, on a busy sidewalk, amidst ignorant, bustling passersby, Aldous Leekie halted, arrested by a pain so severe that his eyes rolled back into his head.

In the split second before he lost consciousness, a single thought entered his mind:

He had been wrong.

Gods _do_ bow.


End file.
